


The Music Box

by RebrandedBard



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Angst, EDIT: now with beta, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Jaskier | Dandelion-centric, M/M, Magic, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, True Love, changed from gen to teen because sex is mentioned in passing in the epilogue, no beta we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard
Summary: A porcelain figure on a music box sits alone in an abandoned attic until one day he is granted the gift of life. He strikes out on a quest of self discovery, giving himself the name Jaskier, and learns about what it means to be living. As he goes about playing his music, he hopes one day to find the one who made him, and learn why destiny should give him a soul and wait so long after to grant him the blessing of life.Alt - Jaskier used to be a figure on a music box before wishing to be real.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 144
Kudos: 301
Collections: Identity Crisis





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3232

Music drifted into the attic, soft and mellow, rambunctious and spirited, earnest and poor. Children’s poems and great ballads of adventure and love lit up the forgotten corners, clearing the shadows from them if only for a moment. At such times, the emptiness and forgetting and damp disappeared. The cobwebs became gossamer curtains. The dust was nearly like snow. For the length of a bar or two, there was life in the abandoned place.

How long ago had it begun, the little porcelain figure wondered? When the music played in the world beyond, his little heart stirred to life and reached out longingly to be a part of it. When did he first have a heart to stir? He thought it must have been long ago, a century or two. It was impossible to tell the passing of the years.

He thought it must have been then, when the little boy turned the key on the box for the first time. The little boy had stared up at the figure in wonder as it sprang to life, spinning round on the lid of the box. Tinkling music, sharp and sweet and sure poured out from inside, enchanting. The little boy asked someone, an old man he thought, if the figure might be a faery in disguise, and if he’d had wings the figure would have fluttered them with joy. He would like to be a faery. He thought he might have seen them in some of the far markets, their eyes shining brighter than they ought. If he were a faery, he might dance or play. But no. He could only ever turn, and only ever in one direction, never singing or dancing. Never playing.

As the years passed and he was exchanged in colorful paper wrappings from hand to hand to hand, he’d grown tired of his song. Always the same notes over and over, without even words. He envied the harp. He hated the violin. The flute mocked him, for they had no such limitations. And oh, how he might shed tears to listen to the people singing! How could any one instrument play so many songs? He could not cry, and he had no voice—why should he have a heart to ache and break for such things at all?

But now, alone in the barren waste of things packed away and left to rot, he wished he might have the company of his song again. He’d been in the attic so long, he’d forgotten the very last of the notes, and there was none to wind his key. Even if he had no music, he might at least be allowed to turn. It was not true dancing, but he could pretend. He did not know why he was allowed such a blessing as to pretend or to feel, but he tried so very hard to use it.

Outside, it was coming on evening. A nightingale perched somewhere nearby, singing its song. Hateful pest! He wanted to rip the heart from his chest and push the broken pieces back together, but his hands would always remain poised. One lifted above his head, and one so tauntingly to his chest. His mouth would always be open to sing, and he could never utter a sound. And here came the nightingale once more to mock him, singing pretty verses and trilling in the fading light.

Once, long ago, a nightingale had flown in the open window to nest among the abandoned rafters. It sang and sang as it built its nest, and there were two. How dare anything come to this place, throwing freedom and music and love in his face, flying and parading around him! He wished they might have the mercy to fly low and knock him from his perch. If he might fall and break, perhaps he might then die and be rid of his longing.

It was a joke. Perhaps he’d watched a faery too closely and it had cursed him for it. He would always live with longing, never dying. For the sin of seeing too clearly, someone in Faerie had cursed him with unfulfillment. He was only a toy, just a simple, decorative knick-knack. He must always look wherever he was turned. He could not help staring.

The night came, bringing darkness with it. He was afraid of the dark, for it was so much quieter when the sun went down, and he knew he was truly alone. He was grateful for clear nights when the moon and stars offered their comfort. Though he was surely faded by exposure to the light, his clothes turned white and grey by the dust, he was the more fortunate for being left uncovered, allowed to see through the small attic window into the heavens. It was his spotlight, bathing him in a single ray of warmth when the sun was high, a pale beam of silver light when the moon rose. It asked him to perform and fill the room with life, and he wished to comply.

The house had long been empty, no audience to perform for. He wondered what had happened to the family. Had they moved on? Had they died? The corner of the roof sagged from years of heavy snow, and the beams creaked in the wind. He wished the house might have ghosts at the very least, but it was depressingly without haunt. There had once been rich furnishings beneath the dost cloths, he remembered. The attic was quite expansive. Maybe the family had been comprised of peers, turned out during some great revolution. He thought of such romantic stories often to pass the time, and it made it difficult to remember. Surely he would have heard the fuss of fighting below. He fancied the rebels would have tried to burn the house down and that only the attic was spared the flames. He would like some looter to come scavenging in his lonely domain. Perhaps then he might be taken and sold, then he might at least see something new of the world. Even the patch of sky outside his window had become too familiar.

Then, there came something new. A brilliant streak of light across the sky. His heart leapt at the sight and he knew it for what it was. _A shooting star._

His left hand always reaching, for once in his life he felt it was with purpose. He wished to tangle his right hand in his shirt, for his heart ached with a terrible hope. He reached with his left, beseeching, for once he’d been owned by a little girl who wished on such stars, and he knew the most earnest came true in stories.

He wished. _Oh,_ how he _wished!_

_Living. I want to be living!_

He wanted to leave this place. He wanted to sing and play all those instruments that taunted him before, show them who truly knew the depth of music. Who knew music better than the figure on a music box? He wished to taste those songs on his own tongue which the people sang and hummed and whistled! He wanted to frolic! To dance! He wanted to just once—only once!— turn counter-clockwise.

The star disappeared before his eyes and he waited, staring up at the place where it had been. And he waited. In the deafening silence, his heart began to beat painfully in his chest and he willed the star to return. His outstretched arm trembled and he wished to call it back. The attic blurred, tears prickling his eyes. He sobbed, knowing the star would not return, and brought his knuckles to his eyes, wiping away the hot tears as they began to fall.

He stopped.

He slowly tilted his head down and looked at his hands. They glistened in the moonlight, wet with tears. They’d _moved._ He moved them again and found he could. Quickly, he looked at his feet and saw not a box, but the bare floor below him. His heart beat again—it was beating! What a wonder!—and he laughed, felt the smile on his lips for the first time. He wobbled as he attempted his first step and fell onto the arm of one of the old chairs. Giddy with joy, drunk on this sudden euphoria, he ripped the dust cloths back and threw them into the air. At long last, he could move! He danced around the room, exploring all that he could never dream to touch or feel beneath his fingers. In an old chest, he found beautiful festival costumes. He threw off his old tatters and dressed in them. How long had he envied the birds for their colorful plumage? Or humans for their ever-changing clothes?

He found a mirror and stood awhile, watching himself so full of life. He smiled, frowned, scowled, and made a hundred funny faces. “Hello!” he said, then he tumbled back from his reflection, startled by his own voice. He’d heard something like it in his own mind, but it had never been anything so loud or concrete. Very quietly, he whispered, “Hello,” again, peeking up at the edge of the mirror from his knees. Shyly, he waved back at himself.

On shaking legs, he stood again. He made a courtly bow. He’d been on the mantle once of a great room in some manor, and he’d seen many a bow and curtsey. It was clumsy at first; he did not yet know how to move properly, but his heart was full to bursting for joy. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said, and his words were almost steady. “And what is your name, good gentleman?”

Here his fun came to a halt, for he had no answer.

“Oh. I … Who will name me?” he asked. He had no mother or father. He did not even know who had made him and his box.

His box!

He turned round, searching for it. How odd a thing it was to be able to look from this new perspective. And there it was, where it had always been, sitting on the old end table among the clutter. He picked it up, turning it over and over. On the bottom there was writing, but he could not read. He’d never had the chance to see it, though he’d known it sat beneath this feet. It was carved and painted with wildflowers, gilded on the edges. There was some chipping here and there, and the color had faded, but he could not help loving it, for it had so long been a part of himself.

The mechanical bits clicked as he wound the key. He bit back a sob as the music poured out once more. It had been so long. The notes came to him at once, though they stuck now and then, and he could remember how they’d sounded once so very long ago. The little platform on top turned round and round, empty. He turned, spinning very slowly in the opposite direction as he clutched it to his chest until, dizzy, he had to sit. When the spring had wound down, he wiped his eyes and leapt to his feet. He scrambled to the window and threw it wide, reaching out into the night sky.

“Thank you!” he called. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

One day he would find the words with which to express his gratitude. He swore he would put his heart and soul into such an expression of thankfulness, and he would bless the sight of the generous stars until his dying day! Could he die? Did he eat? There was so much to discover!

He finished his exploration of the attic and collected a bag and change of clothes. Belongings. He had belongings now. There was something grand about owning things. He carefully wrapped his box in a bit of cloth and put it into his bag. When the sun rose in the morning, he’d be off on a journey. Very soon, he’d be part of the world. What song would be the first to greet him? Through the window, he’d seen the beginnings of spring. A seasonal ballad, he hoped.

He explored the rest of the house, going from room to room to examine this strange place that had been his home, so detached from what he’d known. It was a grand house, full of once-fine furniture, walls covered with portraits and intricately patterned and peeling wallpaper. He bent to feel the carpets, excited to touch everything he came upon. He discovered a velvet couch, a silk table runner. He ran his finger along the rods of a carved banister, listening to the gentle thump as he did. In another room there was a lamp with a beaded shade that clicked wonderfully and jingled when disturbed. When he realized the short heel of his boots made a clomping sound, he began to tap them as he walked, skipping now and then until his feet had carried him to the most wonderful discovery of all.

It was a music room. There was a great harp in the center of it, standing under an old chandelier. He eagerly stroked its strings, only to find it horrendously out of tune. Still, he played to hear the sound. One by one he explored the various instruments. It was not such a vast collection, but it was more than he’d ever seen, and he was filled with the sudden desire to take one for himself. But which? He would play them all until he might make his choice.

The pipe was too shrill for his ears, still so sensitive to such noise. He liked the drum well enough, but it made no more than one or two sounds beneath his beating hands. He’d enjoyed the harp, but it was far too big to carry. Then, tucked in the far corner, he found a lute. He plucked experimentally at its strings and knew he had found his instrument.

He pulled the strap over his shoulder, his heart aflutter. A great mirror lined the wall and he turned in it, admiring himself. Yes, from here he would make something of this new life! With this gift, he would give something wonderful to the world! He would give music that which none had ever known, and all the Continent would sing his songs!

When the sun rose, he stepped out of the lifeless house and into the wider world. Things were beginning to stir, birds rising, wind waking. Even the flowers seemed to turn up their heads to look as he passed. An hour’s walk saw him in a bustling hamlet, men and women going about their morning work. He scurried up to the first person in reach, tapping the man’s shoulder.

“Excuse me—good morning. What is this place called?” he asked.

“Lettenhove,” the man replied, eyeing the brightly-dressed traveller.

“And what,” he asked, “is that house there beyond the fields?”

“The old Pankratz estate, but you won’t find any work there, bard. The last viscount was taken by pox several years ago. The nearest courts are in Falla.”

Bard! Might that be his name, he wondered? Before beginning his great quest, he must find himself a name. He remembered the writing on the bottom of his box. Would it be some name?

“Can you read, sir?” he asked. “Or might you point me in the direction of one who can?”

The man sniffed and stood straighter. “I can read,” he said gruffly. “Trying to make fun?”

The bard shook his head apologetically. “No, never! I have something that needs reading, and I cannot make it out. Would you help me?”

The man looked at the bard’s flashy clothes doubtfully. Such colorful songbirds were surely educated in reading and writing. Though he quite clearly felt he was being made part of some joke, he held out his hand and asked to see the bit of writing.

The bard unwrapped the music box and handed it to him with delicate care. “The, uh, writing is too small. I’ve lost my spectacles,” he excused, feeling a fool. He’d never been taught to read, but he knew there were some who read with spectacles on their noses.

The man looked more friendly at that. “Well, it’s a poem,” he said, observing the writing on bottom.

“Will you read it to me?”

With a shrug, the man recited the short verse:

_With the turning of the year_

_Little friends shall gather near_

_In the Spring they shall appear_

_The lovely yellow bloom, jaskier_

The man hummed and said, rather importantly, “The rhyme is good, but the spelling of the last word doesn’t match the pattern. It doesn’t rhyme to the eye.” He smiled and stroked his chin, looking very clever.

“What’s a jaskier?” the bard asked. It was a lovely word, he thought.

“It’s … ” the man looked around, then he stooped down to pick a flower from the grass by the road. “It’s this. Do they call them something different where you come from?”

The bard reached for the flower as it was offered to him and made no reply. He did not know where he was from. He decided it might as well be here.

As he turned the music box in hand, the man admired the flowers on the sides. “Ah, here they are as well. It’s a very pretty thing. May I have a listen?”

The bard nodded and the man wound the music box, listening to the tune. At last the bard could hear words in the notes. When the song finished, the man returned the box and the bard wrapped it once more, tucking it in his bag.

“Thank you,” the bard said.

“Julian!” someone called. The man turned over his shoulder as the caller waved him over. “Julian, move your sorry ass along! We’ve got deliveries to make, you lazy bastard!”

“Stop your whining, Alfred, you old cow! If you didn’t walk so slow, I could make the deliveries in half time!” He turned back to the bard and patted his arm jovially. “Well then, that’s my time run out on me. If you’re still around this afternoon, you ought to play for us at the pub,” he suggested.

“Thank you, but I’ve got to be going. I have a delivery of my own to make,” said Jaskier Julian Alfred Pankratz. He’d found a name, found several in fact—spares, just in case he might lose one—and now he had a new quest in mind. “I’ve got to deliver this music box to its owner.”

“Did you need the address read?” the man asked.

“No, thank you,” Jaskier replied. “But if you might point me in the direction of the nearest market, I’d be much obliged.”

“Thataway. Happy travels.”

“The very happiest!” Jaskier exclaimed.

And he was off in the pointed direction, a spring in his step, and an old song in his heart made new. He hummed as he went, then whistled. And at last, the market in sight, he began to sing the little verse aloud. A spectator tossed a coin into his hat as he stopped to bow to her on his way, sweeping his hat politely from his head. His very first wage, his very first song, his very first morning out in the world!

“Oh, destiny,” he sighed. “At long last, you are a loving thing.”

[Art](https://rebrandedbard.tumblr.com/post/637175050591698944/more-jaskier-because-hes-a-delight-this-time-as) by Me, [Rebrandedbard](https://rebrandedbard.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I was feeling sad today and decided to listen to Eurovision masterpiece of 1969, 'Primaballerina' by Siw Malmkvist. God, I love that song. Channeled my angst into an idea that's been floating around for awhile in my head wherein Jaskier is the figure from an old music box brought to life. I have no plan for once. Let's just see where this rabbit hole leads.
> 
> Tumblr link:
> 
> https://rebrandedbard.tumblr.com/post/635373326681964544/the-music-box-13
> 
> EDIT (December 10th, 2020): Now with ART!
> 
> EDIT (February 24th, 2021): Now with music box music.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3516

Jaskier had spent a long time in and out of markets and he knew that people were always travelling through them with their wares, having visited great cities and small towns alike. If there was any place to begin his inquiries, it was there. He drifted among those who specialized in mechanical and artistic trinkets, for they were the most likely to have music boxes among their wares. Merchants tended to keep a stock of particulars; he had been sold with figurines and statues in a time gone by. He was remembering such things more and more as he wandered among the stalls and carpets, the thrum and bustle recalling earlier days once lost. If he meant to find his maker, he would need someone whose business was in the sale of music boxes to lead him to the source. This rationale made him feel quite clever and the feeling kept him going through his search in high spirits, even as his chances for success grew smaller and smaller, the market’s end in sight.

No matter. There would be plenty of other markets to explore.

As he’d gone through the market, he’d twiddled with the coin he’d received for his song. How much was it worth? What could it afford him? He’d never dealt with money himself, though he’d often seen it exchange hands. The value of things was always changing. As he stood watching a transaction take place, trying to get an idea of what was what, he remembered a series of sales wherein _he’d_ been the product in question. The two in front of him were haggling now, and yes, he remembered, there had been times when he’d been haggled over. Depending on where he’d been displayed, he’d been worth an exuberant amount or next to nothing. He remembered someone once bartering for a cooking pot with him as payment. Another time, he’d been on some shelf, overlooking a frou-frou shop with waxed floors and doilies on the counter. With such conflicting values in mind, it made estimation impossible. He might afford anything at all! Or nothing. But the coin was given without much thought; as such, he figured it wasn’t a strong currency. But what to do with it? How strange it felt to be walking among things that he might himself purchase. What an extraordinary reversal!

There were trinkets that gave him pause sitting on the table at his side. While the merchant and customer bartered, he knelt down to look eye-level with a doll, his gut twisting with recognition. What if somewhere among them there was another like him? Would he know one if he saw? How did one look a doll or a statue in the eye and determine if it had a soul?

All at once, a terrible empathy overwhelmed him. He did not know the worth of his coin, but he knew too well that it would not be great enough to empty the market of every toy or decoration with eyes. It was impossible for him to give them each a home, or whisper hope in their ears, and the thought pained him deep in his chest. He tore his way out of the market and went running back to the fields. Alone, he collapsed in the dirt and sobbed pitifully. The world was full of endless dolls and statuettes and stuffed bears, any of which might hide a soul within. He could do nothing for them but cry. How many attics were there? What countless wishers were tossed under dust cloths, without even hope of seeing a shooting star? He wept for them, and for a terrible fate he might have forever known. He hoped they might find a companion to cherish them, to keep them close, to never let them be so alone.

At the end of his cry, a new sensation settled over him. He felt quite heavy, and there was a dry, scratchy feeling about his eyes and a different kind of ache he’d never experienced before. Before he could come to any conclusion as to what it was, he felt himself drifting, and he startled on the edge of something. Was this death? Did he, in fact, need to eat three meals a day, and having neglected them, was he dying now? He had seen death once, sitting at the bedside of the young girl who taught him wishing. The memory stirred, and he now recalled her wish had been the most primal and earnest of all. Why had the star not granted her life? Pox, the man had said, and Jaskier remembered that he’d known pox in her. Another mourning tear rolled down his cheek as he slipped away, and he understood the depth of her frightened plea.

Someone was crying. It was not him, Jaskier discovered, for he was not anywhere in particular. He was looking down from somewhere, or from around, possibly even before or behind. He was not sure where he was in the unfolding scene, not even sure he saw things clearly, but he was there in some way. The sobbing came to him again and he listened. It was a little boy, he learned, for it was a young, trembling voice which spoke.

“I never got to see a faery,” the little voice hiccupped. “They see faeries in their work, don’t they? I thought I might see only one. But I’ll never see one now!” the poor boy wailed. “I won’t even get to see the buttercups in spring! I was waiting for them!”

There was someone else there, someone who chuckled with the amusement of an adult watching a silly child work themselves over. Jaskier hated that kind of laugh, and he’d heard many in his time. He wanted to find the old man and give him a good kick for his insensitivity.

“You’re not dying,” a gruff voice replied. It was a deep voice, kind and reassuring, though it carried a mocking smile in its tone. Jaskier recognized it—recognized them both, in fact. There was something so familiar about them, and so very old.

“It’s turning white,” the boy said. And really, he sounded _quite_ young, far too young to be fearing death. “Look at my hair. All of the tests—all of the magic—it’s sucked the life out of me! I’ll die of old age before spring. I’ll never see a faery, I’ll never slay a dragon, and I’ll never see the buttercups again! I’m dying! I’m dying! I’ve been left here to die!”

Jaskier waited for the old man to say something to comfort the hysteric child, but he felt something cold and wet against his eye and jerked upright with a cry of fear. He was in a field, in the dark. The scene with the boy faded as the rain began to fall. His heart thundering like the clouds above, he turned this way and that, looking to see what new horrors awaited him. What faery had whispered to him and given him this terrible vision? What _was_ that! He wiped at his eyes, vision blurry, and his fingers came away with a strange bit of dry crust.

He realized then that he’d had his first dream.

Some other child had listened to the story of the sandman at bedtime, and Jaskier had listened as well. Having never known dreams, he’d been curious about them. He looked once more around to see if he might spot the sandman and his funny hourglass, but a raindrop hit the top of his head, shaking him from this new mystery. It was then Jaskier realized he was alone in the dark, and there was no kindly moon to bring him comfort as the rain began to fall.

Shadows loomed all around him. The grasses and crops of the field swayed in the wind, causing all manner of imaginary monsters to prowl in the periphery. He hurried to his feet, breathing rapidly as he ran from them, and the magic of that golden morning was gone. The hamlet lay ahead, windows still bright. It was not too late in the evening—there were people still awake. He ran toward the lights, shouting for someone, for anyone to help him. He heard the buzz and din of a gathering in one large building and threw himself at the door, stumbling inside.

A barmaid jumped at his sudden appearance, nearly upsetting her tray. “Good gracious! Are you alright?” she asked.

Jaskier shook his head, trembling on the floor. He clutched his lute against him, hiding his face against the smooth wood. This physicality only added to his fear. When he’d been afraid those dark nights in the attic, his heart never raced. Not once had he trembled or felt this burning in his lungs. His arms and legs tingled and felt so distant and cold. Was _this_ the feeling of death? People died of fright in stories. Maybe he was truly dying this time.

A chair screeched against the floor as a patron of the tavern stood, hurrying to the window. “There’s scarce few things that can make a grown man curl with fear like that,” he whispered. His eyes scanned the darkness on the road and he waved to the barmaid. “Get that man a drink, quickly! Can’t you see he’s had a shock? You! Alf, Billy, get over here!”

She took one of the drinks from her tray and put it to Jaskier’s lips immediately as more patrons rushed to the windows. Jaskier opened his mouth to protest and she tipped the liquid in. It was bitter and he thought it must be medicine, for he’d only ever know children to turn their heads from cups when they contained something so foul, always complaining of a bitter taste, and he was attempting to turn his head just the same. It was warm whatever it was, and it tingled going down. His stomach felt instantly hollow as the stuff sloshed inside, and he felt a terrible pain, a strange gurgling emanating from it. Everything was happening all at once—the taste, the pain, the noise of the storm and tavern, and the abrupt change from light to dark. He pushed the barmaid away and curled in on himself, his hands to his ears as he tried to shut it all out.

“Look at him,” the man at the window said. “What do you suppose it was? Something was chasing him—you saw the way he ran through the door.”

“I heard him shout ‘help’ when he came in,” another said.

“Wasn’t it a full moon tonight? Do you suppose it’s a werewolf?”

Jaskier’s eyes were shut so hard, he saw little lights dance behind his lids. There was a ringing in his ears blocking out the rising dialogue. Someone draped a cloak over him and patted his shoulder. “Easy, lad,” he said. “You’re safe now.” It sounded as though it came from another room. Someone else came and rubbed his hands with a cold, silver coin, saying it would frighten the beast away.

“All that mud; he must have been in the fields.”

“Might’ve been a noonwraith. They lurk in the fields.”

“It wouldn’t be a noonwraith you idiot; it’s there in the name! They only come out at noon.”

The barmaid lifted Jaskier from under his arms, grunting. “Here, someone help me carry him to the fire. He’s soaked through.”

Jaskier felt the warmth of the flames and began to return to himself as the hands disappeared around him. When he was once more present, he became aware that he was seated on a stool at the back wall of the tavern. Someone had taken his bag and lute and these were now sitting at his side. In their stead, his hands clutched a hot mug of something that smelled sweet. It made his mouth water, and somehow he felt he could taste it before a friendly hand guided it up under his chin. He took a sip and it was far more pleasant than the swill he’d first had. He drank it eagerly, the warmth filling him, and at last he began to settle.

He was safe here. There was light around him and people by the score. His panic dissipated, he felt ridiculous for his behaviour. Nothing had chased him but shadows. He bit his lip, afraid of what the people would say when they discovered there was no monster lurking in the night.

Those not watching at the window began to turn to him, some getting out of their seats to hover nearby. The barmaid returned, straightening out the cloak. She took the empty mug from him and cradled his hands in hers. She looked up at him with such gentle concern, he was worried he would look a fool to tell her the truth.

“You alright, deary?” she asked.

Backed in a corner, Jaskier recalled a hundred bedtime stories and fright tales and knew there was only one way to emerge from this embarrassment unscathed. He put a hand to his eyes as he’d seen many a man of delicate disposition do in the great room of old, imitating their swagger and hyperbolic sweeping.

 _“Oh,”_ Jaskier moaned. “Is it still there? Tell me, you at the window. Is it out there?”

The man looked out on the road, squinting at the shadows. “Don’t see nothing. What was it?”

“A beast!” Jaskier threw his arms wide, eyes large and white. His audience gasped at his sudden cry, so loud and strong where he’d been once so meek. “A great, hulking beast,” he said, “with glowing yellow eyes. It must have been eight feet tall, fur a grimy black.”

“A werewolf!” someone shrieked.

Jaskier turned and pointed to the shrieker. “No. It was something far more vile. A creature without name. I’d never seen such a thing before in all my life.” And that was truer than true, for in his one day of living, he’d seen hardly anything at all.

The crowd gathered in as he spun the tale, a few men posted at the door. He wove a terror of his own invention, borrowing from the small sparks of memory that had been sitting in his heart like clutter in the attic, dusted off piece by piece. Somewhere he’d picked up a wealth of stories about monsters, and he had a variety of disturbing traits to choose from as he invented his beast.

Alone he’d been wandering three days, no food or drink, lost in the faeries’ woods—(he’d seen some woods behind the old estate, and it felt like the right setting to find them). He’d been singing when he’d entered and become lost when it grew dark. The fairies had mischiefed him and turned him round and round, for he’d been singing a song for the praises of elves in their territory. It had insulted them, matters made all the worse for doing so with such _fine skill_ as he played his lute. In retribution, they’d stolen his music from him! To demonstrate, he lifted his lute and tried to play the song from his music box. To the astonishment of the crowd, it sounded terrible. Small wonder that—the old thing had not been tuned in many years.

And what folly! for he had been bold enough to demand that they return his skills to him. He’d picked up nuts from the ground and hurled them at the faeries, shouting cutting insults all the while, his pride was so painfully wounded. That had tipped the scale and they had cursed him for his insolence, sending a … ah … an _unholy demon!_ A demonic beast made in parts, stitched together from the rotting remains that littered the deepest, darkest depths of the forest floor.

The barmaid was gripping Jaskier’s hands so hard that he winced.

“But fear not,” he said. “For if you see no beast at the door, the fae have spoken true! They said that I might live if only I might escape the beast before sunrise on the fourth morning and return to the human territory. And here I am, among you fine people! The beast shall not enter here. Rejoice, for it will be dust at daybreak, scattered among the roots of the old woods!”

A rousing cheer broke through the tavern, the spell of fear lifted from their hearts. Drinks were toasted and raised together, and the barmaid threw her arms around his neck, placing a kiss at his cheek. To welcome him from his harrowing journey, a large meal was brought—he’d not eaten in three days, after all—and another mug of hot cider placed in his hands. He ate and drank with gusto and asked where he might stay the night, for he’d been running so very _very_ long, his limbs aching and sore. He was offered the use of a bench and a covering was brought for him. Having escaped his own foolishness, warm, fed, and comfortable, he curled up on the bench, his bag for a pillow, and snuggled down to try and sleep with a purpose this time. He was no longer afraid of the heavy feeling in his limbs, understanding with self-ridicule that this was not the first sign of death taking hold. He hoped when the sandman returned, he might offer a better dream.

When he awoke the next morning, he was sad to say the sandman had skipped him, for he’d not dreamt a thing. The tavern owner offered a bowl of honeyed oats to him, thanking him for the surge in business he’d brought with his story. The toasts to his escape had been generous and people had ordered fresh rounds, filling his purse to great satisfaction. Jaskier thanked him and enjoyed another meal. He decided that he liked eating very much and was looking forward to eating more things in the future. Shortly afterwards, he discovered both the displeasure and relief of eating’s aftereffects, learning quickly by studying a drunk man pissing in the alley outside and following his example. With that, he decided there were some rather unromantic aspects of being living that he might have done without.

For some time on his journey, Jaskier found that storytelling was the best method by which to make his wages. It pleased him to know he had such an imagination! Along the way, he found someone to tune his lute, offering them his fascinating faery tale to excuse his odd lack of knowledge. He strummed the lute over and over to memorize the sound, wanting to be sure to keep it well maintained in future.

When the musician asked him to try playing, Jaskier felt a lump of anxiety rise in his throat, for he did not know how one played any instrument. He’d only ever plucked a string that was out of tune. He swallowed his fear and poised his hands as the musician had done while tuning, then tried to play his box melody, remembering how poorly it had gone before.

To his immense shock, his fingers found the notes without fumble. He laughed and played again. “I can play!” he cried, jumping to his feet. He played a jig, making up the sound as he went along, and the lute sang out with beautiful, confident notes. “I’m playing! Just listen to that!”

The musician shook his hand and congratulated him. “Your curse must have run its course,” they said. They asked if Jaskier might now entertain them with the verse of the elves which had been so lovely as to incur the faeries’ wrath.

Jaskier blushed and said that he’d sworn off the song, fearing an encore of such events. Instead, he played without words awhile to show his appreciation—and to figure out just where the notes were exactly, but this he found he knew already. His destiny was at work, he discerned. With the coin earned from his playing, he bought himself a notebook and ink, determined to use his storytelling prowess to write songs.

He began with composing a ballad for the stars in the sky, writing flattering verses for their charity. In time, he included a few verses about their contradictory nature, asking why they should choose which wishes to grant, asking what made one worthy of their wishes. These he did not sing, but kept quietly to himself in his own private musing. He sang them alone, staring up at the glittering sky, wondering under which lucky twinkle he’d been born. Though he saw no other shooting star, he made another wish to find his home.

The night of his wish, the sandman came. Jaskier woke to find the sand once more in the corner of his eyes, though the dream was forgotten. All he remembered was the sound of snipping shears and a gruff old voice. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to recall the rest of the scene to no avail. What a funny thing dreams were. He wished they might linger only a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure some of you can already guess as to who the old man and boy might be. Yes, we are going down this route. Yes, it will be sappy and sweet. No, I will not be taking criticism at this time. Yes, I am pleased that you'll be naming your firstborn after me, good day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3206

Jaskier learned many things. He learned songs and dancing, music and art. He fell into his first romance headfirst and fell out of it as quickly and in much the same direction, being tossed over the maiden’s fence in a rather confusing chase through the yard after her father had seen her press a kiss to his cheek. He had many romances afterwards composed of such inconsequential affections and _substantially_ less demure encounters, which he’d taken rather a liking to nearly as much as food and drink. But he was still something of an innocent, too trusting, and as such often found himself on the wrong end of another chase. He’d not been a year alive and he’d averaged no less than two chases a month. Slowly, he was learning.

However, not every chase was conducted by angry fathers, mothers, and sisters for some wrongdoing of misplaced attentions. His third month in the world, Jaskier had found himself pursued without provocation on the road, his bright costume attracting the eyes of covetous bandits like swooping, bloodthirsty magpies. At first, he had not known them for the threat they were. His eyes were still bright, looking upon the world with ignorance, and he’d taken them for travellers like himself. In stories, bandits were all scarred and mauled and hideous things the world had chewed up and spit out like the twice-digested cud of a cow, and this was the image he believed in all faith at face value. It was not until, stumbling upon their camp, asking like a fool to share their fire, that he’d been shown his error, greeted with a grim dagger between the eyes and the offer of the fire in exchange for his lute, hat, and other worldly goods. He lost the hat in his haste to retreat. As for worldly goods, he had hardly any to speak of: a jingling of coppers in one pocket, a day-old end of bread in the other, and the clothes upon his back.

The story he’d told that first night of life returned to him as he fled blindly through the woods. Hounding him like a pack of vicious wolves came the bandits, all howling with laughter at his clumsy escape. They knew the woods. He knew hardly anything at all. Like a lame rabbit on the run, he stumbled his way into bramble and brook. And over the cliff’s edge.

It was then that Jaskier’s education came to something of an awkward standstill.

The bandits were lost on high, searching as all sensible people might in other parts. They did not think to look for their quarry over the sheer drop, for even a fool without the sense to turn away from a bandit’s camp would have sense enough to avoid such certain death, they presumed. They presumed too much, knowing nothing of Jaskier’s unusual circumstances. He was himself unsure of these very circumstances, and he knew even less as he lay gaping up at the far ledge above him, still very much alive, unhurt, and unbroken.

He’d felt the impact. He knew people died falling from great heights. Had he not known old men with brittle bones who broke hands and hips tripping over steps? Had he not seen children laid up in bed for having fallen from the apple tree in the yard? He counted the length of four, perhaps five apple trees stacked root to end from the place whence he’d fallen. Large ones. Yet he could find not so much as a bruise on his arm for all his poking and prodding.

More incidents came to pass. Jaskier procured a knife for protection, hoping he might at least give the appearance of some competence with it should he happen upon another gang of thugs, having no experience with its practical uses. He tried to teach himself, beginning with the most common application: culinary catastrophe.

The knife slipped while he attempted to cut an apple but the blade failed to pierce his skin. It was well-sharpened, and he’d felt it press firmly against his thumb, but there was not a slit however shallow, nor a single drop of blood. He used the knife to forage mushrooms and roasted them contentedly to no ill effect. Once, staying at a farm on his journey, he’d collected such mushrooms for the family only to discover he’d been feasting on poisoned fare for weeks, untouched by its vile affects. The surface of a burning pot left no mark upon his hand. The bite of a wild dog did not penetrate his skin. It seemed that he was altogether untouched by pain of any kind. Though he knew hunger, he did not starve. Though he knew thirst, he did not parch. He became familiar with the discomforts of sleeping crooked and contorted, learned of restless nights and tiredness, but true exhaustion was a stranger. In fact, he soon determined the only hurt he would truly know were the barbs and stings he received from the tongues of an unappreciative audience.

For all his skill in playing and writing, Jaskier found himself in a block at the end of his first year. He’d managed to survive the fall and winter holed up in a university, conning his way into the hallowed halls by presenting himself as the viscount of Lettenhove, displaying his marvelous lute as proof of his heritage. Such cleverness came naturally—the _cunning_ was bred from it in time along the roughened road. The billing was sent home to his father, then a scholarship produced through a little trouble, and Jaskier devoured every lesson and lecture like a man mad with hunger. He produced dazzling works and was well praised by his professors. He attracted admirers and enemies alike, affection and envy. But his inspiration fled with the return of the birds in spring.

He’d written of every experience he’d met with and invented many more, but come spring every romance seemed dull. Every harrowing escape seemed not-so-harrowed, and even his descriptions lost their luster. He would sit after hours and strum his lute, sighing. Nobody wanted to listen to the ballads of the mundane things he found so fascinating and he’d given up trying to make them see the wonder of the world in anything so simple as turning counter-clockwise. He shamefully tried to imitate other artists and their fashionable subjects when his audience was unresponsive to the fifth verse about all the different angles from which to appreciate the falling sunlight: a verse dedicated to each of the difference senses.

“You should go back to singing about your pretty little pig-maids,” one classmate mocked. Valdo Marx. Jaskier was sure to remember, for he spent a _great_ deal of time crafting unflattering rhymes for that uppity, self-important name. He’d taken to spelling it ‘Marks’ in retaliation, citing that Valdo received poorer marks in music. That was one of his prouder days and the glow of his victory carried him through several presentations.

By end of spring, Jaskier returned to his romances and found that, through them, people would listen to his words. If he put some shining beauty under a shaft of sunlight, people would lean in to listen to how it fell upon her cheek. If he pretended to speak metaphorically, people begged for another chorus comparing the ever-changing wind, now wet, now dry and cruel, now carrying the salt of the sea or the spice of autumn leaves. As long as it billowed through some lover’s hair, the people would listen, enraptured.

For a long time, this was enough to satisfy him. He was happy to imagine a subject for his songs and to sing empty praises, so long as he might sing truer praises within their shared lines. And on occasion he would find a muse to pose for his subject in a song or two, but his unlucky eye fell always on the wrong sort, and they would not, could not stay. He was obliged to go on this way, and these half-truths became expected.

He graduated the university with top marks and was eager to go out into the world again, gather a new audience, new inspiration, and continue his search. For four years he’d labored at Oxenfurt in the hub of culture and art to provide the means by which to venture in better skill and comfort, for his first had been a hard year, even with the naïve charm of his early songs. In his time, he had sent out inquiries and produced a list of places to visit where he might find sculptors and mechanical magicians, and he set his sights on these places to find his maker.

He travelled from Redania to Brugge, Cintra to Sodden, following the river Newi down into Toussaint, where there was nothing of consequence to be found but good wine. Angren, Lyria, Aedirn—he felt he had trudged his way to the end of the world, and still he could find no helpful hint to guide him. The music box boasted no signature, to tell-tale feature to distinguish its origin. It could have come from anywhere, or nowhere at all. He’d grown weary, cynical, and he sang songs which reflected his growing distaste as he’d come to know the uglier side of life with all the conviction against such things as he could muster. And so he’d come to Posada, singing too loudly to the wrong crowd simply to spite them with his song, spitting back the cruelties in their faces. It was a fine way to earn his bread. Bread thrown at him and collected from the floor in such a run-down backwater was bound to taste just as tolerable as bread bought with his own coin, if not finer for lacking the bitterness on his tongue that would have come from having to martyr his purse for the purchase of it.

And it was there, hidden in the corner, waiting to meet him on that dark night of the soul, that he saw the yellow flicker of something earnest looking back. Perhaps it began with indifference or amusement, but whatever it was, it lacked cruelty. The masochist in Jaskier bid him step forward and instigate whatever would follow, be it waiting cruelty or the confirmation of his own insignificance in this stranger’s life. The optimist whispered promises of further novelties. And so either foot moved at their own command, driving him forward.

Those two same feet carried him with lighter step from Posada next day at the side of one Geralt of Rivia. He had found at last a muse of such divine description! Where else could he find such a bold figure? Where was there another so fantastic? Indeed, he found himself fantasizing often, for Geralt was every inch of him a hero in form and act, his image not a bit ruined for his gruffness and rare vulgarity. Rather they were the flourish at the end of a signature, turning him from mere print to fine, charactered script.

Yes, Jaskier could sing of the silver shine on the smallest fish’s spine and put it in his companion’s hair. The flash of his eyes, how bold, bright—how blinding like lightning! How like the radiant sun! And how Jaskier might like to stand before the glass and sing, “Mirror, mirror, in my hand; who is fairest in the land?” only to be met with satisfaction when the glass reflected Geralt, his skin pale and scarred with a thousand stories. And how quickly these ruminations gave way to others wherein words failed. How soon he stopped composing and simply admired.

For a time, Geralt thought Jaskier was mad. He’d told him as much, and for a variety of reasons, chiefly concerned with the dangers involved in his lifestyle. Jaskier took silent humor in knowing that there were no threats which might menace him, come what may. Months went by and Geralt had accepted Jaskier as he might accept the inevitability of spit in his ale. They parted ways in winter, came bumping back together again in spring, and by summer, Geralt felt a grudging camaraderie for the bard.

By the second spring together, grudging had turned to a feeling of quiet companionship. Geralt had come to expect him around the odd bend in the road, and Jaskier was only too delighted to oblige him, turning up the moment they’d been apart long enough for Geralt to begin wondering after him. They did not always travel together; Jaskier’s hunt took him on another path away from that of Geralt’s a month here or there.

What had it been: five years? Six? Jaskier was no longer a spectator, but a part of the world. He now had the fantastic ability to look back and reminisce on things he’d done. He had stories of his own, and he was bursting at the seams to share them with Geralt. The novelty of communication never soured for him, and he lapped up every grunt or roll of the eye Geralt offered. Each little twitch and grumble served to prove that Jaskier was there, speaking, alive and whole, affecting the world around him. While searching for his maker, Jaskier found that his second goal in life was to make Geralt smile as many times as he might before meeting his end. So he talked and joked, punned and riddled, and happily sang his every thought.

That is, all but one. Geralt never asked where Jaskier came from, never asked after his family or his past. Jaskier did the polite thing and reciprocated. It was something of a difficult subject for either of them. In addition, Jaskier was conscious of Geralt’s opinion of himself, and he did not want to become … a _thing_ in Geralt’s eyes. He might be nothing more than a figurine under a spell if he were to tell that truth, something without a hand in his own creation, preordained. That was why he leapt to Geralt’s defense the moment anyone suggested that he might be nothing more than a useful tool for killing monsters. Even Geralt himself.

“You’ve got a name, haven’t you?” Jaskier asked. “We don’t name a saw or a shovel.”

“We name swords,” Geralt countered.

“And they become characters in their own right: the center of legends! What is Arthur without the mighty Excalibur? Where would Alojzy be without the Steel of Piorun? But never mind that—you have a name and thoughts. You have feelings.”

Geralt scoffed. _“Men_ have feelings.”

“Whatever sort of _man_ you are,” Jaskier said, “be the breed of witcher, hunter, alchemist, fisherman, or fool, you’re a _man._ You’ve got a life, whatever job you take to sustain it. Don’t allow it to be stolen from you by anything less than a well-earned death, and at that, at the end of a long life. We’re not things, Geralt.”

Geralt had made no reply, but gave Jaskier a questioning glance at his odd choice of wording. Jaskier did not acknowledge it. He simply strode ahead, beginning to compose another song about the courage and strength of a heart possessed by a wolf in the wilds. Where was his pack? What was their make? Perhaps a pack could be comprised of something else, suggested a little brown bird above the wolf’s head.

The metaphor was not lost on Geralt. “I’d rather not you not sing of me now,” he grumbled. “Can’t you go back to your songs of flowers and maids? They make for more romantic subjects.”

“I would argue otherwise.” But Jaskier obliged.

He sung of the great wetlands and moors he’d passed on his most recent journey away. The soft moss beneath his feet had almost made up for his disappointment when he met with the mechanic, for once more he had failed to find the right artist. He sang of the desert after, with its colorful canyons and silted red sands. He liked the desert best when he was far away from it and the memory was no longer as hot. The desert hosted many fine glassworks and tile makers, but they could not tell him who made his gears and springs. He sung of valleys and mountains with all manner of strange wildlife, the varied flora and fauna of the continent. In vain he’d traversed plains, swamp, and sandy beaches, never finding home. His maker was likely long dead, but he had hope there would be _some_ memory to tell him who it had been, somewhere in the world.

Geralt stopped walking a moment and stared at him, brow furrowed.

Jaskier turned back to him and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“How do you know all these places? You don’t even own a decent pair of boots,” Geralt said. “How could you have possibly gotten around to have seen these things you sing about?”

Jaskier shrugged. “My boots are fine. I’ve been everywhere in them and they haven’t made me sore just yet.”

Geralt looked at him doubtfully. Jaskier waited, then turned back around and continued walking. A minute passed, Geralt following behind, then the question broke the silence.

“Where do you go when you aren’t around?” Geralt asked.

It was the first real interest Geralt had shown in Jaskier’s life beyond him. It startled Jaskier briefly, for he’d never expected such an interest, especially not anything so direct. He looked over his shoulder, then back to the road.

“Away,” he answered vaguely. “Everywhere, anywhere.”

“What do you do?”

“You _are_ curious today. Will this be a game of twenty questions or only three?” Jaskier plucked at his lute, trying to come up with an answer that would not provoke further questions. Perhaps if he thought long enough, Geralt would forget. He wished Geralt might have asked after some other topic: one inviting friendlier conversation.

“ … I’m looking for someone,” he said at last.

Geralt hummed. “Revenge?” he asked.

“No.”

“Jilted love?”

“No,” Jaskier repeated.

“Then who?”

And Jaskier had to answer honestly. “I don’t know; I can’t remember much about them. It’s a man, I think. An _old_ man. Or was, at any rate: he might be long dead.”

“Hard to look for someone if you don’t even know what he looks like.” Geralt passed him, giving his arm a slight bump. It was not wholly unfriendly.

Jaskier smiled. “I’m in no hurry,” he replied.

“Hm.” Geralt gestured to the road that lay far ahead. “The Path follows many roads, goes through villages and cities alike. Maybe you’ll find him along the way.”

Jaskier looked at Geralt, followed his averted eyes toward the road beyond. “Oh,” he whispered. His smile grew wider. “Yes, I—that would be sensible, staying on one route.”

Geralt walked faster, pacing ahead. When he did not hear Jaskier’s footsteps follow, he looked back and called, “Are you coming or are you just going to stand there in the middle of the road?”

Jaskier shifted the lute over his back again and jogged up to Geralt’s side, smiling bright as the sun above. “Coming!” he said. “Definitely coming!”

“Don’t drag your feet,” Geralt grumbled.

There was never such an easy command to follow, for Jaskier’s feet hardly touched the ground the rest of the hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll edit this later for spelling errors and stuff, but I wanted to get it posted tonight before going to sleep. Love a good soft Geralt. Jaskier deserves to be missed and invited along.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4312

Dreaming again. Perhaps it was the talk of the old man that caused it. The dreams were few and far between, but the picture was clearer. They were memories, Jaskier recognized. The characters of each were the same, the scenes more distinct in the fog of sleep, and they felt more familiar than other dreams where his mind wandered and the world was made more colorful and strange.

There came a snipping sound. It was repetitive, sharp. It drew him closer to the scene, as if he were waking to the sound, rather than the reverse of falling in deeper. He saw the young boy again, sitting with a somber expression on a stool. The old man stood behind him, trimming away the brown ends of a shock of white hair.

In the way of dreams, the scene faded. Jaskier saw snippets cut out of time pass in a haze before him. He saw needle and cloth, a bucket of white clay. Mostly, he heard sounds. A wet slap of clay. A dry scratching and scrape. Something clinked and swirled: a brush against the rim of a glass. Beneath it all he could hear the rumbling hum of the old man. It sounded like his song. He heard the light, tinkling chime of metal being struck. Another metallic slide. Strike one, two, testing pitch. Yes, in it there was a hint of his song, and the old man muttered the words under his breath.

“There. Now you’ve seen a faery.”

Things were clearer now, and at last Jaskier had a place within the story. He stood on a table, right in the center of things, and the boy was looking back at him. Once more, Jaskier’s arm reached out as it had for so many years. The boy put his finger in his hand as if to shake it.

“He hasn’t got any wings,” the boy complained bluntly.

“Not all faeries have wings,” the old man sniffed.

Jaskier recalled hearing a dry crunch and a distinct, “Fuck,” at one time. It occurred to him that he might have had wings once and that the old man had broken them in his construction. He wondered what they might have looked like. They must have been very frail and difficult to craft if the old man had given up a second attempt. He hoped they might have been a lovely colored glass and wistfully imagined having them again.

How unusual, he thought, that he should think in a dream at all. In most dreams, he did not have the presence of mind to comment on the events unfolding. Nor did he have the presence of mind to feel so nervous, and he hoped the child was not too disappointed in him for lacking wings. He stood there, immobile, and felt pinned by those eyes. If he could but tremble he would. Was he enough? He wanted so badly to be enough. There was, he felt, no point in being made if he could not bring this sorry child even the faintest of smiles.

When Jaskier woke, his cheeks were wet. He opened his eyes and saw gold starting back at him from beneath a furrowed brow. Geralt looked at him, startled. As Jaskier became more aware of himself, he found his hand clinging to Geralt’s shirt, his bed roll abandoned. He was curled up against Geralt’s side, and Geralt had one arm hesitantly around his shoulder. Jaskier looked up at him a moment, then tucked his head down against his shoulder, drying his tears against the soft linen of his shirt.

The sun rose within the hour, but Geralt made no move to start the day. He waited until Jaskier sat up of his own volition. And Jaskier did sit up in time, his arms wrapped around his knees. Geralt followed up after him, sitting at his side quietly. He had an air of expectation about him, though he did not speak.

Jaskier rested his chin on his arms, looking at the patchy grass at his feet. “Do you ever have dreams?” he asked. “About the time before you became a witcher?” His voice came out small, little more than a whisper. A warm hand brushed against his back, then disappeared.

“ … Sometimes,” Geralt replied. “I don’t remember much of before.”

Jaskier reached down and plucked a dry blade of grass. He fiddled with it between his fingers, and slowly he folded his legs under him. “Neither do I.”

He spotted Geralt leaning forward from the corner of his eye. He looked confused.

“You have a ‘before’ time?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier nodded.

Geralt approached him like a nervous horse, a hand once more at his back, trailing up as he crept forward. He sat at Jaskier’s side, the hand now at his shoulder, their knees together. He waited once more, the reassuring weight of him pressed close.

Jaskier closed his eyes. “I don’t know where I come from,” he confessed. “I have dreams about it: of before. I’m looking for answers.” He leaned against Geralt’s bulk, let the warmth leech into him. “I had one of those dreams tonight.”

“I dream of before,” Geralt related. “In those dreams, I remember my mother vaguely, always in the periphery. Most of what I remember begins during the trials—one frightening blur. I don’t think on it.” Geralt’s thumb stroked Jaskier’s shoulder, pulling him closer. They did not touch often. There was something about this moment that made it safe to do so.

Jaskier told Geralt of his various families over the years, of those he could recall. It was an impressive number, though Geralt did not comment on it. Jaskier supposed Geralt took him for a foundling, passed around, abandoned, found again. It wasn’t far from the truth. Geralt whispered to Jaskier about his brothers in the keep, describing his life with Lambert and Eskel. He spoke of Vesemir, the swordsman, mentor to the three of them that remained. There were more wolves at one time, long ago, but they were long dead. A siege had taken them shortly after he’d completed his trials. He had nightmares as well.

Since he’d begun travelling with Geralt, Jaskier had dreams more often, though they were still months apart at a time. His gruff manner of speech reminded Jaskier of the old man, and it was impossible to forget the boy’s fearful sobbing when he looked at Geralt’s white locks. They travelled the rest of the day without exchanging more than a few words, until at last they arrived at a populous shire. The inn they chose was large enough to boast a fine tub and washroom, and they indulged in a hot bath to wash away the troubles that plagued them in the early morning, as well as the thick layer of dust they’d accumulated on the way. As Jaskier sat combing out Geralt’s hair, he was reminded of the crying boy.

“Was your hair always white?” he asked.

Geralt turned his head slightly, then lay it back against the rim of the tub. “Grew that way after the second trials,” he murmured.

“Witchers … you said they usually go through one set of trials, is that right?”

He hummed, eyes closed.

Jaskier took it as the affirmative. The warmth of the room, the gentle steam; they made a comfortable atmosphere, smoothing away the rough corners of the subject. Just as it had been that morning, allowances were being made. He pressed on, treading lightly. There were many things he was curious about where Geralt was concerned. Lately, something had shifted, lowering the walls between them. He was leaning over the edge now as if looking into a fine garden, though he had to be careful of thorns about the bushes.

“Do all witchers have white hair like yours?” Jaskier asked. He ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair, the comb abandoned. His hair was softer these days. Jaskier took a bit of pride in leaving this mark of change on Geralt. It felt good to take care of someone in such small ways. There was something nurturing in his nature that compelled him to try.

“The others have their own colors, same as they always did,” Geralt replied. “I’m not the standard by which you ought to measure our make.”

Jaskier’s heart skipped. He knew Geralt had been very young when he’d gone through the trials. He imagined a small boy, yellow eyes, white hair just coming in, crying about being left to die. Tests and magic … his fingers stalled as he considered the possibility. What else might cause a child’s hair to turn white?

“Are you the only witcher with white hair?” Jaskier asked, pinching a lock between his fingers. Was it the right shade? He tried to picture what little he’d seen in his dreams.

“There may be others. There are several schools of witchers, and they boast greater numbers than ours. We’re the last of our breed and no more will come after.”

Jaskier’s heart settled back in his chest, a little heavier than before. Something like disappointment anchored it in place. He sat awhile, braiding Geralt’s hair and unbraiding it again. For his part, Geralt remained as he was, simply resting cradled in the warmth of the water.

With no segue, no preamble, Jaskier asked what he thought of faeries.

Geralt scoffed and said they were nuisances.

Jaskier quelled his suspicions with a defeated sigh and handed Geralt a towel.

Months passed in the usual way. Contracts, monsters, tavern concerts, and the odd confrontation. Another year had gone in their routine. His sleeping memories were insubstantial, nothing but a whisper in the back of his head now and then tangled up in other dreams. They were brought on by small things: the sight of a blue jay upon return to camp, the chanting of children as they played a game or skipped rope, but the two things sure to bring a memory to the surface were found in winter and spring.

In winter, it was the first chill. He always had peculiar dreams that first chilly night, be it in Oxenfurt or cozied up as a court pet for the season. Those dreams were confusing, full of fear and pain, things he had no true memory of. They did not feel as though they belong to him at all, but to another. And always in them, the boy was crying.

He was made for the boy, Jaskier discovered in time. The old man was his grandfather, or maybe an uncle. It fit perfectly into the puzzle. The boy wanted to see a faery and wished for flowers during the dark of winter, so the man had given him a bit of spring that wouldn’t fade. In the privacy of his dorm, in a borrowed room, or when Geralt was long away on a hunt, Jaskier would take out his old clothes and think on them.

They were a thin, white linen, a little worn with age. He’d not known until the star granted him life, but atop his head had been a crown of yellow flowers hammered from a bit of painted tin. It was very pretty, even now, and he liked to put it on his head to feel its weight or twirl it around his finger. It shone in the firelight and looked almost gold, though it was worth more to him for all the care that was put into its making.

He did not put his clothes on again very often. It was only when he was a little homesick that he did, and he regarded himself as silly and sentimental, for how could he miss a home he did not remember? Besides, whatever home it was, it seemed to him to be somewhere very sad indeed. There were times he thought it might be best left forgotten. He did not wish to remember those more frightening things that greeted him with the turn in the weather. For all the old man’s kindness, for all the sweetness of the boy, he could not be persuaded.

The sweetness came with that first breath of spring at the sight of those little yellow flowers. He would have other dreams on that day, always something softer than what winter brought. Images of the little boy running about made him smile. There were other blurry figures in the background at times, though Jaskier never saw them clearly. He was looking from a narrow cubby, hidden away on some shelf at those times, only brought out again when the boy was quite alone. When it was the two of them, the boy would wind his key, sometimes dancing self-consciously to the music, always casting shy glances at the door.

Sometimes the boy talked to him. He was a quiet thing, always whispering or mumbling as if someone might be listening in on such private conversations. Upon waking, Jaskier never remembered much of what was said, but the tone lingered and filled him with a pleasant feeling. He’d known many children who talked to their favorite toys, sharing their secrets in the intimacy of their little forts, blankets tented over their heads at night. To the boy, he was such a favorite, and he reflected on this with pride. The latest spring showed him the boy’s smile and he knew he’d done the job for which he was created. Perhaps done it well.

Geralt found him the first week of spring and Jaskier wondered how he’d come so quickly. When asked, Geralt explained that the passage in the mountain cleared early, and he’d had business in Oxenfurt: something about finding a book for Vesemir. Or at least Jaskier thought that was the case; Geralt had mumbled the last bit and turned back to rummage through Roach’s saddlebags, the subject dropped. Whatever the case, Jaskier was overjoyed to see him. He threw his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and embraced him a solid minute, which Geralt allowed with only half a grumble of protest and a stiff pat on the back.

As they wandered off in search of their latest adventure, Jaskier told Geralt all about his winter lectures, naming favorite students, memorable incidents with the other staff at holiday dinners, and the newest drama with a certain stuck-up troubadour. Geralt had kept busy as well and he was more generous with the details the last two years. He dropped a sentence here and there about training with his brothers or patching up one of the crumbling walls of the keep. He did a lot of reading in wintertime, Jaskier learned. There was a vast collection of books in their library.

Jaskier had done his own fair share of reading. He’d discovered an old merchant’s ledger in the academy’s library and had spent long hours searching for any stock listings describing music boxes, hoping to follow the trail backward. He’d been very excited to discover such an entry in mid-December: music box, missing winding key, flaked gilding. White figure, brown hair, blue eyes, crown of yellow tin. He must have sent twenty letters out to artisans listed in the ledger’s address column, describing his music box in great detail.

One had written a reply to his inquiry. She claimed to have wrought a replacement key and touched up the gilding, but she could not answer questions as to the make or origin. When he tried to find the merchant, he discovered he and his family had been taken by war many years ago. And thus the trail had ended.

In the evenings, Jaskier would twiddle the key in his hands, contemplating. If anything, this bit of correspondence had brought him more trouble than it had been worth. Now he was beset by anther task. In addition to finding his maker, he had to find his key. He didn’t like the thought of some piece of him being lost out in the great wide world like a severed arm left to rot. It would have been better not to know than to suffer the loss of it. If he hadn’t read the ledger, he would have never known there was anything missing, for he had never been able to turn his head and see the key, even as he turned round and round on top of the music box. It was too far below him. He sat sighing and wondering what it looked like, whether it might not be identical to the key he held in his hands now. If he imagined it was, perhaps he might live with the loss more easily.

He sucked in a breath of surprise and jerked forward when a cold finger pushed against the shell of his ear. He whipped around, broken from his reverie, and saw Geralt standing just behind him, a wild pheasant in his hand. Jaskier had been so focused on the key that he’d not heard Geralt return from his hunt. He shoved the winding key into his pocket.

“Sorry,” Geralt said, equally startled by Jaskier’s reaction. It was subtle, but Jaskier knew him well enough now to see. He curled the offending finger in his fist and lowered it to his side, shuffling over to the fire.

Jaskier rubbed at the spot behind his ear, trying to rub away the slight tickle. “What was that for?” he asked. Had there been something in his hair? He shuddered to think he might have picked up a tick from a short stint in the tall grass. Geralt had told him to take the long way around to the river, cautious of snakes, but Jaskier had been too lazy.

Geralt set to plucking the pheasant clean, eyes cast to the side. “Nothing,” he said. “Just saw something. Went for a look.”

“Oh, _please_ tell me it wasn’t a tick,” Jaskier moaned, clutching at himself. How disgusting! He wasn’t fond of most bugs, but he could at least put a worm on a hook or move a friendly caterpillar to the safety of a bush. Moths and butterflies were pretty enough. But he drew the line at vicious, vampiric, blood-sucking pests.

Geralt tossed a handful of feathers at him. “You’re _fine,_ Jaskier. Stop your wriggling.”

Jaskier prodded at his ear, just to be sure. Nothing. He looked at Geralt, nose wrinkled with annoyance. “What was it then? Trying to give me a scare? You’re much too stoic to try and give me a wet finger in the ear.” If he was the kind, he’d have done it by now in revenge for the time Jaskier had done it to him in the bath. Instead, Geralt had dunked his whole head in the water.

Geralt stopped his plucking. He twirled a few of the downier feathers between his fingers, looking at them in the glow of the firelight. “I just thought … do you dye your hair?”

Jaskier gaped at him, too perplexed to be offended. “What?” he asked.

“There’s a spot behind your ear. I noticed it just now.” Geralt pointed to the spot behind his own ear, showing him the place. “It’s very pale. You have a few discolored strands here or there.”

Jaskier flushed, a hand instinctively drifting up among his hair. “My hair has _always_ been brown!” he objected. “Are you trying to imply that I’m getting _grey?”_ Could he grey? Could he wrinkle? He wasn’t sure, but he’d rather hoped against it.

“No need to take on,” Geralt replied. There was a humorous little smile on his face as he returned to his task. All the while, Jaskier said a few unflattering words about Geralt’s own dusty head, _cantankerous_ being the foremost of the lot. _Ancient_ being a close second. He did not let up until the pheasant was plucked, cleaned, and roasted, a leg practically thrust between his teeth to pacify his rambling.

Jaskier ate in a pout, lamenting a newfound mortality he’d hoped not to deal with for at least a full decade of life. It occurred to him—after he’d finished most of his meal and his stomach was no longer contributing to his dour mood—that there might be an alternate explanation.

Many of the finest porcelain dolls were made with real hair. It was part of the sentimental movement some years ago to have them made with the very child’s own hair. He was not quite a doll, but he wondered if a figurine might not be beholden to the same movement. The sound of snipping came to him, and he recalled the child’s whitening hair. If he’d been wigged with the child’s hair, it was only natural that it should have some white among the brown. He smiled to himself, twisting a few strands between his fingers. He never had such a clear picture of the old man or child, but this little detail made him feel that much closer. Brown hair. His child had once had brown hair.

When they’d finished their meal, Jaskier took up their bowls and carried them down to the stream to be scrubbed out. Geralt followed after to fetch water for the fire. Jaskier heard him approach this time and was not startled when he appeared at his side. However, he stalled, his hands in the water, when Geralt simply crouched, doing nothing. When Jaskier turned his head, he caught Geralt staring.

Jaskier sat very still. There was something about the way Geralt was looking at him that made him want to wait. He did not want to disturb him by asking what he was after. It was strange, but he felt it he asked, he might spook Geralt. To acknowledge that anything was amiss was to discourage him, send him running. And Jaskier wanted Geralt to go on looking at him that way, to be observed so closely.

Geralt brought a hand up slowly to Jaskier’s hair, brushing it through his fingers. He tilted his head to one side, just looking. Gentle fingers pinched the ends of a lock, careful not to pull. He just went on looking awhile, then he brushed through the hair on the other side of Jaskier’s face, repeating the motion again.

“You’ve got white at the ends,” he said. A stray hair came loose in his fingers and he brought it up for Jaskier to see. “Look. If you were going grey it would be white at the root. It’s odd.”

Jaskier set their things aside and, shaking the water from his hands, took the stray hair to examine. It was as he thought then. “Shame to lose one of anything so unusual,” he said.

Geralt’s hand trailed through his hair once more. “You’ve got plenty of them hidden away,” he reassured him. He passed a few minutes, fingers combing out Jaskier’s hair, tapping a spot where he found another. Slowly, the tapping ceased. Geralt continued to smooth over Jaskier’s hair, watching it shine in the light of the rising moon. He brushed the fringe from Jaskier’s forehead, disturbed by his search, and one finger trailed down behind Jaskier’s ear again, touching the place where he’d first found the patch of white. And there it stayed.

Geralt was caught there, Jaskier’s eyes pinning him in place.

Jaskier was breathing quietly. An easy calm had enveloped him and he was firmly settled in its grasp. The warmth of Geralt’s hand pressed timidly against the side of his neck, thumb cradling his jaw. It felt nice. Comfortable. He tilted his head back and let himself look awhile, eyes freely roaming. Geralt looked paler at night, his eyes brighter. Moonlight suited him; k _issed by starlight,_ Jaskier thought. And it was that thought that so graciously provided another, and Jaskier thought he would very much like it if Geralt were to kiss him then.

He waited, let Geralt decide for himself what he wanted.

Geralt’s hand remained on Jaskier’s relaxed pulse. Absently, he rubbed his thumb over Jaskier’s cheek. His eyes slipped lower to glance over Jaskier’s lips. He spoke to them, warm breath ghosting over Jaskier’s chin.

“We should go to sleep before it gets cold,” he said.

Jaskier nodded, just a fraction of movement. “If we’re all done here,” he agreed.

Geralt lingered a moment more. “It’s still early spring," he added. "Chance of frost in the morning.”

“We can keep the fire going.” Jaskier eased his hand over Geralt’s.

At the motion, Geralt seemed to become aware of his own hand. His fingers lipped away, hand curling as it fell. He closed his eyes and took a breath, then stood. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got another early start tomorrow.”

Jaskier smiled gently and collected their bowls. He set one hand on his knee to hoist himself up, only for Geralt to take the hand and help him to his feet instead. He wasn’t looking at Jaskier anymore, but he led him back to camp, Jaskier’s hand clasped in his during the short walk. They packed up their things without another word, falling back into their evening routine. When there was nothing left to do, no other reason for puttering around, they laid out their bedrolls and lay down, a little closer than before.

As the fire burned down, Geralt brought a silent finger up to curl a lock of hair behind Jaskier’s head. He could tell by Jaskier’s breathing that he was awake. Jaskier knew he would not have done so otherwise. Gradually, Jaskier turned over and rested a hand on Geralt’s forearm. Geralt waited a moment, then resumed playing with Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier hummed, and the two of them lay that way until the last of the light burned down.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. He’d begun to drift, lulled by the soft touch of Geralt’s ministrations. It was soothing, and he hoped Geralt would continue until he’d gone to sleep.

Geralt smiled in the blanket of night. He rested their foreheads together, finger still twisting round and round. “Goodnight, Jaskier,” he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what? I'll beta once we get to the end. We're almost there anyway.
> 
> I was feeling really soft with this one. No awkward chickening out, but a gentle retreat, and none too far at that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6440

The time passed as slowly as Geralt’s advances, and each eternity stretching before them felt like heaven to Jaskier though nothing more followed after that sweet night. Geralt had retreated back where they’d begun, but there was no longer such a gaping divide between them. That night, Geralt had built a bridge over it, and he liked to linger now and then a few steps more toward the middle than in past, and Jaskier was waiting on the other side for him to gather his courage again. It was not the drop of a deadly canyon over which the bridge swayed—the bridge, in fact, did _not_ sway, being much too sturdily constructed.

This was no rickety rope and plank disaster, but brick and mortar: the kind of bridge that outlasted its village. It was the wide bridge which invited ox-drawn carts to cross two at a time, and for mermaids to hold council beneath where their singing echoed in the loveliest tones, where a troll had long ago been chased away by a determined brotherhood of billy goats for their victory to be celebrated in timeless tales. It was the kind of bridge lovers might dance across when they are young, with smooth wood railings to lean against while watching the sun set over the water in their twilight years. The water ran soft beneath. It invited enthusiastic jumpers in summer and the most graceful skaters in winter, and one could poke a stick over the side to guide a little wooden boat if they liked. There was no danger in falling from such a harmless height. That was the bridge which Geralt had built.

Jaskier sometimes skipped across the bridge to meet Geralt on his end, or he liked to climb the rail and balance along it while he waited. In this fashion, he would take Geralt’s hand as they walked along the dusty road, or else he would lean down to tap their foreheads together when giving Geralt his tankard in the tavern. He spent many long hours daydreaming of the time when Geralt would meet him in the middle, but it was a dream enough to enjoy what he had in waking. So he waited patiently and was content to watch Geralt. They had all the time in the world, a statuette and a witcher.

Currently, he was watching Geralt in a rather divine state of undress as he bent in the river, washing his clothes. Even the sickening smell of rancid rotfiend guts was not enough to spoil Jaskier’s romantic musings. He sighed, the light glittering from Geralt’s wet shoulders.

Geralt wrang his shirt out, gave it a flick, then laid it out over a low bush to dry in the sun alongside his trousers. Alas, Jaskier thought, he was wearing his spare, but the view was not the worse for it. Giving a final stretch, Geralt returned to the bank, snatching his linen towel from a branch as he came. He rubbed his hair dry and the movement shook something hanging around his neck. It was shiny, catching the sunlight in such a way as to force Jaskier to squint. His eyes focused again as Geralt stepped into the shadow of a tree. As expected, Jaskier saw the familiar witcher medallion hanging from its chain, but there was something more on a cord above it.

“What’s that you’re wearing?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt’s hands stilled and he peeked out from beneath the towel. “My trousers?” he said, frowning back at him in confusion.

“Around your neck.” Jaskier tapped the space above his own collarbone. “What’s this? Another medallion from the school?” He wondered if Geralt got a second for the additional trials. Or, he considered, one was for detecting monsters, the other for magic. Geralt said he wore a medallion that detected the two. Jaskier had thought it was one medallion doing both tasks, but it made sense to have two. He’d never gotten a good look at the wolf medallion, but this he’d not seen at all.

The medallion winked at Jaskier as it hung from its cord, and Geralt came forward, draping the towel over a rock. He lifted the medallion, cord pinched between his fingers as he brought it to eye level. “It’s a holdover from youth,” he answered. “Something Vesemir gave to me.”

Jaskier held out his palm and asked, “May I see it?”

Geralt pulled it up over his head and shook his hair free from the cord. He placed the cool metal in Jaskier’s hand carefully before dropping the end.

It was floral; a pretty thing, really. There were five metal loops around a puckered center, all dotted and hammered to give it texture. Altogether, it resembled a small flower. There was a nub at the end made of a short, hollow tube, covered with curling leaves. This tube was that which the cord had been threaded through. It was an odd sort of fastening, but Jaskier was not one to question magic charms and their make.

“May I have it back?” Geralt asked, already holding out his hand.

It must have been important for Geralt to be looking so nervous. He was a cautious man, and Jaskier did not blame him for feeling uneasy in these woods without his charm to alert him to danger. He stood and placed the cord over Geralt’s head once more, reaching back to free his hair, hands delaying longer than necessary to smooth the hair back down over his shoulders. Jaskier straightened the odd medallion on Geralt’s chest, tracing the design one last time.

Before he could remove his hand, Geralt caught it. He looked at Jaskier, and it seemed there was something on his mind—something he wanted to say.

And as ever, Jaskier waited.

But Geralt did not say his piece that day. Instead, he gave Jaskier’s hand a timid squeeze before retreating. It happened again some days down the road. Jaskier caught Geralt staring as he tuned his lute. Jaskier had set the lute aside, having seen Geralt hesitate, rolling the words around his mouth silently as he searched for them. However, he’d swallowed them down again. It was easier to be patient at these times when what followed was another intimate gesture. Geralt had reached over and once more given Jaskier’s hand a squeeze, following which, he’d nudged their foreheads together before making his retreat without speaking.

Once, Jaskier had gathered all his daring, taken a running start from one end of the bridge, and leapt across it to plant a kiss to Geralt’s cheek after a frightening contract had taken Geralt several hours to complete, bringing him home bloodied and ragged. A wraith, and a powerful one at that. Jaskier couldn’t help himself, bursting at the seams with nervous energy as he was, and he was worried he’d pushed too far too soon. But Geralt had simply tugged him against his chest, one hand cradling the back of his head, and planted a kiss at Jaskier’s temple, murmuring apologies for the lateness of his return. He’d slept with an arm around Jaskier that night, and the slow, reassuring sound of Geralt’s steady heartbeat helped him find sleep.

Summer brought with it mischief in the form of the solstice. This time, there was no wraith to bring Jaskier grief, but something new: something he’d not yet encountered in his travels for all his singing to the contrary. Geralt had accepted a contract to investigate some trouble with a group of faeries in the fen outside of a village. According to the alderman, the faeries had been running amok for a full week, curdling all the milk, spooking the sheep in the pasture so their curly fleece stood on end, and loosening every line of laundry they happened upon so that the fresh clothes spilled into the dirt. Evidentially, someone had offended the fae and brought their ire upon the villagers, and they had need of a mediator to placate them before the solstice, lest their methods of making known their frustration grow to more extreme measures.

Despite the threat of the solstice looming close, Jaskier was excited by the prospect of seeing a faery with his own eyes. How marvelous to see the very thing which he’d been modelled from! He wanted to catch a glimpse of their wings especially, and he swore to himself he would do his very best not to be overwhelmed with envy at the sight.

Experience had long taught Geralt that he could not talk Jaskier out of accompanying him on a hunt when he was so set on coming along, and the promise of encountering a new beast only ever caused him to dig in his heels. Geralt had taken the time to warn him thoroughly about the dangers involved in meeting with fae so close to the summer solstice, and he made Jaskier repeat a set of distinct rules back to him. No eating or drinking anything until they returned to the village. No speaking his name. No dancing. He was not to partake in any festivities or conversation, but to play mute and politely decline the advance of any fae with a smile and bow. Jaskier was _not_ to wander from his side. If at all possible, he would remain perfectly, totally, completely silent, and allow Geralt to handle any negotiations.

In preparation for their departure, Geralt took Jaskier to the meadow to gather supplies. It would delay their contract by an hour, but they were not about to enter the fen without protection. Jaskier suggested they simply pick a loose iron nail out of the side of a barn and be done with it, but Geralt insisted that to come armed with iron would be perceived immediately as instigation. They needed subtler protection.

In the end, Geralt found a patch of saint’s wort and wove it in a wreath among a number of innocuous flowers. He placed this on Jaskier’s head and it seemed innocent enough: just another crown of wildflowers worn in anticipation of the solstice festivities.

Jaskier cocked his head with a smile and struck a dramatic pose, unconsciously falling back into the posture he’d retained for so many years upon his box. He raised one arm up above his head, the other placed to his chest, head high. “How do I look? Can’t be _too_ handsome, or the fae will want to whisk me away to their court,” he joked.

As Geralt stepped back to examine his work, he paused. The day was warm and Jaskier had forgone his doublet. He stood there in his chemise, the white light of morning all around him, shining through the thin material, the crown atop his head, posed like a dancer ready to turn. Geralt’s eyes widened ever-so slightly as he watched the breeze ruffle Jaskier’s shirt and hair. He looked like a man struck.

“Turn around,” Geralt said, spinning his finger clockwise very slowly.

Jaskier spun as bid, then stood with his hands against his hips. “Well?” he asked. “Don’t gawp at me like a fish. If there’s something on me that’s offensive, tell me so. You look like a man being charged by a bull.” Jaskier tried to look at his back, pulling his chemise so he might see what the trouble was. “What, have I got a crooked seam or unlucky loose thread that might compromise me? Is my shirt inside out? I _did_ dress in a bit of a hurry this morning.”

“No, it’s … it’s nothing.” Geralt ducked his head quickly. His eyes darted among the grass and he plucked another sprig of wort. He stepped up to Jaskier, turned him, and stuck the sprig in the back of the crown a touch brusquely. “ … A bald spot,” he said. “Thought you could use some more. Just in case.” He looked at Jaskier from the corner of his eye, gaze shifting back and forth, as if he were trying very hard not to appear to be looking. There was a strained look to him as of one who is thinking very hard, as, for instance, when trying to calculate the exact change needed to pay one’s tab. Jaskier could hear the dusty gears turning and clanking in his head just as surely as the old gears of his music box, in need of a good oiling.

Geralt scratched at his neck, finger rubbing beneath the old black cord.

As they began their long walk to the fen, Jaskier grew nervous. Geralt had not spoken—which in itself was nothing unusual—but the silence was one pregnant with distraction. A distracted witcher was a dead witcher. Certainly the fae would not be violent with them; their mischief was small enough that it did not boast of a very _large_ grudge (and faeries were far too small to bear a large _anything,_ you know), but Geralt never entered into anything looking so … distant.

In his stead, Jaskier kept a watchful eye. He spoke now and then, remarking on the change in the landscape or asking questions that went unanswered about what faery court was like. That Geralt had not yet told him to be quiet only added to his worries, for Geralt had been very clear on that point when they’d begun their preparations.

They soon came upon the tall grass that marked the edge of the fenland. The grass rose up above their heads in a thick wall. It tickled at Jaskier’s cheeks as he followed Geralt into the mass. He was careful never to step too far away from Geralt, not to lose sight of him for even one moment. Soon they were in the thick of it, lost in the middle somewhere. Here the grasses varied in height and there were soggy pools of mud and puddles whose water ought not to be so clear. Accompanying this unnerving landscape came a rustling that Jaskier was sure did not belong to either of them. He turned around, trying to spot the source. Was that bit of movement by the stone circle a faery, or only a frog hopping about? That twitch! Was it only the wing of a dragonfly?

Jaskier snapped his head forwards again and hurried to Geralt’s side. He stopped himself from reaching out and clinging to his arm only just. It would not do to inhibit him. Instead, he stayed as close as he could, still giving him full range of motion should anything emerge from their surroundings. His heart was drumming in his chest. There was nothing dangerous about, and he'd be fine so long as he followed Geralt’s instructions. The fae were crossed, not malicious, and their grudge did not fall on either of them, even as messengers. He was so busy repeating these truths to himself that he did not pay attention to the curve in the path. His foot slipped over the edge of a large, clear pool, and he went flying down into the water with a yelp.

Jaskier rose sputtering to the surface. He snatched up his crown before it could float away from him and dropped it dripping onto his soaked head. “You complete and utter ass! Why didn’t you warn me about the—! About … the … ”

He looked about, wiping the water from his eyes. Geralt was not by his side. “Ge—witcher?” he called. He had to stop himself from calling his name, lest anything hear and try to take it. There was some trickery involved, he knew, for the fae could not steal anything so important so easily, but it was better not to take risks where such things were concerned. “Witcher?” It was then he realized this was not the place from which he’d fallen.

The little circle of stones that once lay beside the path was gone. The small puddles, the mud, the grasses both short and tall—all had disappeared. Instead, he was in a cavern. He stumbled from the pool, stepping onto the mossy floor. It occurred to him that he ought not be able to see in a cavern without some source of light, yet he could not spy a single torch around him, nor so much as a stubby old candle on the rocks. He realized that he was surrounded by a great many pools, and the light came from these. He bent to look over the one he’d just risen from and found himself looking into the bright blue sky, just as one would see it from the bottom of a clean lake.

Logically, if he stepped into this cavern by way of the pool, he ought to get out of it the same way. This in mind, he hopped into the water, but found it was shallow to the ankle. The disturbance rippled the surface of the pool and the sky which had seemed only just to lay beyond the bottom was revealed to be nothing but a false reflection on the surface. A chill ran up Jaskier’s spine as he stood, trapped alone in the cavern.

“Funny thing, jumping about.”

Jaskier startled, tripping over himself as he tried to step away from the strange voice. He cried out once more as he fell into the pool backward. Thankfully, he chanced to land on a springy cushion of moss in the middle. Or perhaps not by chance.

“Funny, funny!” the voice cheered. “Oh, look at it! What’s it so worried about that it should look so pinchy and pale?” The owner of the voice glided forward, catching itself on a stalagnate, arms hugging the smooth stone pillar. The faery smiled at Jaskier very prettily, though it was an uneasy smile to behold, having perhaps one or two too many teeth. It fluttered its wings curiously, appraising him.

“It’s a very pretty thing,” another joined.

Jaskier looked up and spotted another faery hanging upside down from a stalactite above his head. It smiled down at him, and this time he as sure it had too _few_ teeth, though the set was whole and complete.

A third dropped down upon the broken end of a stalagmite, its wings buzzing loudly. It gnashed its teeth in some pointed approximation of a smile. “What is it!” the faery cried.

One by one, more faeries emerged, sliding down from the abyss above or climbing out of pools. They appeared to grow up from the very moss that covered the floor, heads poking out like so many daisies. Jaskier counted twenty, then stopped counting. At a loss, he bowed his head politely. The faeries delighted in this and clapped their hands at him.

“It’s one of us!” a fae claimed.

“No, it’s big!” another protested.

One reared back, its little blue face turning purple as it scowled at Jaskier. “No,” it said. “It’s _fake.”_

This claim caused a fuss of murmuring as the faeries scrutinized him. Jaskier felt his blood run cold. He stood slowly, bowing again, and stepped to the side of the crowding hosts. Water splashed quietly beneath his boots as he entered another pool, just as shallow as the other.

“Couldn’t be fake if it came through the pools,” someone whispered.

“Ah,” came the opposition. “But look at it: it steps in another and does not step _through._ ”

“Is it half? Can’t be less than a quarter.”

Jaskier squeaked as one alighted on his shoulder. “Oh!” it gasped. “Listen to its noise! It makes a very musical sound, it does.” It jumped from his shoulder and hovered before him, its little hands braced against his nose. It stared into his eyes, head tilting this way and that like a dog trying to distinguish a sound.

“This thing is missing pieces,” the faery said. It encircled him, joined by a handful of others. They played with his hair and the ties of his shirt, never touching his crown. A cluster of them gathered at his boots, poking their fingers where they might beneath his sole.

“Missing! It’s incomplete!” they said.

Jaskier shifted his heel and one faery cried out in pain. He gasped, bending down to assess the damage. In his haste, he did not feel the crown fall from his brow. “I’m so, so very sorry!” he said. “Please, I apologize profusely. I swear I didn’t mean to harm you. Are you alright?”

The faery who’d given the cry had stuck its finger in its mouth, but now its jaw slackened. The other faeries looked up at Jaskier, equally in awe. Then, the faery lifted its finger in the air. “Sing!” it demanded with a dazzling grin. “Sing, sing!” the others joined.

Jaskier looked over his shoulder, avoiding crushing any number of faeries as he tried to retreat from their enthusiastic entreaties. “I—I cannot sing now, I’m afraid. I never sing without my lute, and as you can see, I haven’t got one handy. Do excuse the intrusion—the inconvenience,” he muddled, too nervous to remember Geralt’s warning.

“It’s incomplete; it cannot sing!”

“We might remedy that, easy as anything. We’ll fetch your missing things, then we shall have our song, pretty thing!”

Jaskier was growing tired of being referred to as ‘it’ from every which way. “I am not a _thing,”_ he huffed. “I’m a _he,_ begging your pardon.”

One faery laughed so hard it nearly tumbled over the edge of a pool. One faery began to dance with another like two figures on a cuckoo clock, bobbing and turning, wheeling and whirling. Several faeries joined hands and began to dance around him. As one, they began to croon:

_Silly thing! Silly thing!_

_Made to dance and made to sing!_

_His missing pieces we shall bring_

_So he might lead our reveling!_

_Fetch the coil! Fetch the spring!_

_Fetch the instrumental string!_

_Come and raise the toadstool ring_

_Come, revelers: take wing!_

As they sang, the pool at his feet drained. From within emerged his bag, just as if it had always been there. Jaskier snatched it up at once, clutching it to his chest as a few curious hands tried to open it up. The whole progression pushed him along the cavern, telling him to collect his missing pieces as they arrived for him. Further down, another pool drained and he spotted the body of his lute lying on the rock. He ran towards it as the faeries insisted he “Sing! Sing!” a song for them, now he had the most necessary piece for making music.

“I will not be singing and that is final!” Jaskier shouted, his hand closing upon the lute. He was trembling, afraid he’d been trapped and made some pet of these creatures. “I’ve had quite enough of these histrionics and I mean to go home. This is no way to treat a man!”

“It thinks it’s a man.”

The cheering and cajoling came to an abrupt halt. The atmosphere at once became heavy with an eerie expectation. It was so silent and still that the ripples could be heard lapping at the edges of the pools.

“It _says_ it’s a man.”

“The only men here come from the village.”

“The village _mischiefed_ the fen.”

“Stole our irises for their solstice celebration.”

Jaskier strung the lute over his back, swallowing hard against the dry lump in his throat. “I’m not from the village. I’m a traveller,” he said.

A faery shot in front of him. “If it says it’s man, we’ll treat it like man!” it scolded. “And _man_ stole our irises. It’ll be mischiefed like the rest!”

“Let’s take _its_ irises,” one suggested. It rubbed its hands together greedily. “Such a pretty color; we’ll plant a patch of cornflowers with them.”

But one faery stood between Jaskier and the mob, arms raised high. “No, no!” it said. “Look carefully at its eyes. It has a twinkling of stardust. See what shines there: it cannot be harmed.” The faery looked enviously, its lip curled. “That’s a special bit of shine, it has. And so greedy to have one in each eye.”

Jaskier heard knocking somewhere far behind. It sounded to him like the knock of an axe on the executioner’s block. Yes, he could not be harmed, but they might take other measures. Turning him into a toad was not harm. Switching his hands with his feet was not harm. He decided it was best to take a chance running blind than to stand around and wait for them to decide upon the most interesting loophole.

They were upon him before he’d taken three steps.

With a shriek, he tried to bat them away. Little hands pawed at his face and arms, tugged at his shirt, his boots, his bag. One of the faeries pulled back the flap and in they buzzed like hornets in a hive. They gave a great holler as the music box came tumbling out among his clothes.

“Here’s the mischief!” the knowing one proclaimed. “We’ll make the impudent thing a thing again. We might have done for a man just the same—good for ganders and geese and that.” It raised its hands in the air and cried, “Wind the key! We’ll have our song into the bargain!”

From the far end of the cavern came a heavy sound like drumming. It seemed almost in perfect time with the clicking of the key. Something strange happened then. With each turn of the key, Jaskier’s heart gave a little shudder. He took to his feet, raising his lute above his head to strike the wretched beasts away, but he found his movements had become very stiff. He reached forward to retrieve his music box and his arm had an unnatural shine to it—one not owed to his time in the water of the pool. He slumped to his knees, reaching out, and it suddenly seemed that his arm was very cold. He’d scarcely touched the music box when his arm became perfectly smooth and pale.

Like porcelain.

At that very moment, a glowing burst of something powerful blew overhead, the static charge of chaos making the hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck stand on end. It cracked loudly in the echoing cavern. The air was filled with streaks of blue light, and where it touched a faery, they shrieked and were thrown aside. Jaskier’s heart gave a great leap as he recognized the sign for what it was. He turned on his elbow and saw Geralt charging from the darkness, the residual light of _Aard_ still encasing his hand.

The faeries screeched and went in a mad scramble this way and that, flying up into the protection of the higher cavern shelves or diving into the pools to parts unknown. Geralt cast another sign, filling the cavern with wavering firelight, and he held his sword high, putting himself between Jaskier and the retreating mob. He beat the flat of his sword against the stone columns, making it ring aloud. He barked at those foolhardy enough to straggle behind and stopped his forward foot—an intimidating _appel_ in fine form.

As the last of the faeries disappeared, Jaskier felt a tingling in his arm. He looked at it and watch it slowly take on its warm color again. He felt the blood rush through it once more, pumped by his anxious heart, and he was able to curl one finger, then another. When Geralt at last turned back to him, he was flexing a perfectly human hand, not a trace of the spell lingering. The last note faded from the music box and it stopped with a small _click_. It was that _click_ which brought Jaskier back to the present.

Geralt’s eyes flickered down to the mess of white cloth on the cavern floor as Jaskier leapt to cover it with his torso. Jaskier scooped the old clothes over the music box, tucking it quickly away in his bag, out of sight. He looked up at Geralt, searching for any clue that he might have seen what the faeries had done, but all he could see was Geralt, dripping wet, looking wild and confused.

“Why did I just appear in a puddle?” Geralt asked.

And all Jaskier could do was shrug in reply.

Geralt looked at the bag and lute. He tilted his chin at them. “Where’d those come from?”

“The fae brought them to me.” Jaskier explained about the singing, how the faeries brought his ‘missing pieces’ to him, leaving out the tell-tale nagging in which they’d called him a _thing._ “Brought my lute. Probably meant my bag for my lute strings as well,” he lied. “Can’t perform without my instrument, and can’t play it without its strings.” Never mind that the lute was not lacking a single string. He could make any number of excuses if pressed. “Perhaps you were brought to be my audience. I hardly ever play without you there for at least a song.”

“Your crown.”

“Lost it in the skirmish,” Jaskier said, casting his head down. He rose and walked the few paces back to the pool from which he’d started. There was his crown, mangled on the floor. He picked it up, did his best to straighten it out, and held it to his chest guiltily. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t trying to get into trouble. I tripped over the pool and wound up here, and there was no going back the way I fell in.”

Geralt sheathed his sword. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then there’s no trouble.”

Jaskier glanced up, not entirely believing him. Because of his mistake, Geralt had just been forced to attack the fae he was meant to be negotiating with. There would be bad blood between them now. It would cost them the contract.

But Geralt’s face was relaxed, without a trace of anger. He took Jaskier’s bag and pulled him along with a hand behind his back. “Come on,” he said. “There’s an opening in the cave not far from here. Let’s get back to the village before they swarm again. We would have had bad luck negotiating in the first place without knowing the source of the conflict.”

Jaskier brightened at that. “It was the irises! They said the villagers stole their irises. The fae probably had some growing wild in the fen.” He was relieved that he might at least contribute in this small way for having lost their job.

“We’ll tell the alderman to burn the irises and offer them a bag of seeds to plant, throw in some honey, a dish of milk, and the first brew poured on the day of the solstice celebration. Then we can collect our pay and get going.”

“Just like that? But you didn’t talk to the faeries. Weren’t you—”

“I was hired to find the cause of the insult and offer a solution,” Geralt replied. “For something as small as this, a related tribute would be enough to settle the feud. And they never stay on any one thing so long. I’d say our appearance has irked them enough to forget the original slight.”

“Will the fae try to mischief us for the way you came in, swords raised and scowling?”

Geralt chuckled. “Even fae dislike the company of witchers. They’ll leave us alone once we’ve gone away from here.”

“And … me?” Jaskier asked.

“They’ll extend the same courtesy to you. You’re with me; a fae old enough to shed the scales of their first wings would know better than to touch anything belonging to a witcher.”

At those words, Jaskier felt as though he might himself grow wings and go fluttering about the cavern, or at the very least, his heart might. “I do belong to you, don’t I?” he replied, a little smile finally chasing his fear away.

Geralt looked at him, not speaking. However, there was a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. “Or with me,” he mumbled. “In some way.”

“In a very good way.”

Though Jaskier assured Geralt he was perfectly alright, not a scratch, bruise, or broken bone, he was shaken by the setting of the sun. Fae came out at night in stories. He had no doubts wherein Geralt would fail to protect him, but there was a dread in the darkness. For so many years, darkness had been empty to him. He knew every shape in the attic so exactly, he could not mistake the drape of a dust cloth over a chair for a demon in the corner. But this darkness was filled with the gentle sounds of night. The hooting of an owl, the chirping of a grasshopper, the rustle of the trees above and their creaking branches—these all served to remind him that this land was not empty, and that beyond the safety of the village barn where they slept, there was the fen, so close, and so very filled up with fae who might still feel cheated by his actions.

It had been far too long for Jaskier to remember such a time when he had been afraid of the dark, but there was one night long ago which had been still with promise. The very night itself had held its breath in anticipation. The grass bristled like the hair on a cat’s spine, knowing each and every one of them would soon be trod upon by an unknown step, though not a single blade could raise itself in defense of their home. What power had they against the cold bite of steel? They could not fight the scythe, nor the sickle. They could not impede the path of the sword.

Jaskier had felt the stillness creep as he watched over his boy. Perhaps it was the star’s power linking him back to the heavens. They must have seen the intruders long before they arrived at the gate, for the stars hang high and witness all. Through their eyes, did he see and have that shudder of foretelling? Or were the woods too quiet, nature’s symphony disbanded in fear?

The old man had hurried into the room and roused each boy in with haste. Two were still in the midst of their dreams, able to ask what the trouble was before the dread settled on the shoulders of their nightshirts, then no more questions were asked. The children rushed to dress and collect their boots before the count of thirty, and the old man hissed instructions to them, ushering them out the door as a rumble came somewhere below. The children were given no time to collect their treasures. They were not allowed a spare moment to gather an extra bundle of clothes. They were hurried out the door as roaring cries rang up the passage.

On his box, hidden behind a slanted book, Jaskier listened. He heard the first booming of a canon and watched as several children ducked their heads. They fled in silence, not one shriek of fear. Jaskier could not find pride in this, for he knew it was not bravery which silenced them, but terror, and he felt nothing but that same terror. Where was his boy?

He heard the dying screams of boys and men. Then, someone was calling for him. It was another name, one lost to the years. His boy was crying for him! He wanted so desperately to cry back, to not be left behind in this frightening place as the walls crumbled around his ears. The cannons sounded like thunder, as if the gods themselves were tearing the foundation up by its roots. The name faded as the boy drew away, and the screams of agony and panic rang louder and louder. He strained to hear the name, to remember it. He reached out for that one comfort as his whole world was beset with strangers and violence.

_“Jaskier!”_

He opened his eyes and Geralt’s were staring back at him, pupils slanted with worry in the dark. Jaskier was shaking, his skin cold with sweat. His hand was gripping Geralt’s shirt so tightly, his fingers felt numb.

Geralt had an arm wrapped around him. When he saw Jaskier awake, he began to stroke his back comfortingly. “It’s alright, Jaskier,” he whispered. “You’re alright.”

Wrapped in the weight and comfort of those arms, Jaskier’s body slowly ceased its trembling. He closed his eyes and tucked his head in Geralt’s shoulder to hide from the fading world of the nightmare. The insects were still singing in the field, and their song chased away the stillness and the screams alike. As long as they sang, there was no danger about. Even if their chirping vanished at once, there was nothing that could harm him. The straw beneath them was itchy, but warm. Geralt’s shirt was much the same, though always warmer, always softer in spite of itself. This was the safe and mundane. There was nothing to fear in a barn.

When the nightmare was gone at last, Jaskier’s hand uncurled. Something heavy dropped from it, falling among the folds of Geralt’s shirt. The medallion, he discovered. He’d been clinging to it in the midst of his terror. For a moment he entertained the possibility that it was some protective charm. If there were magic in him, why, he reasoned, should it not reach out to other magic? _A twinkling of stardust,_ the faerie had claimed. _It cannot be harmed._ It was that small sentence which comforted him. A faerie said he could not be harmed. No faerie, then, could harm him. No faerie was _coming_ for him. And Geralt, he was sure, had not seen.

Jaskier looked down at the arm he kept tucked close to his chest. With two fingers, he prodded beneath his sleeve and felt the fading goosebumps, the slight tack of dried sweat. With a brush, he freed the hairs which clung to his smooth skin. That skin was soft and it gave at his touch. It was not hard and slippery like porcelain anymore. He was not a statuette, not a figurine, nor a mere decoration. He was a living, breathing thing—something and someone new.

“Tell me my name, Geralt.”

“Go back to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt answered, pulling the blanket up around them.

Jaskier nodded and settled again. “Yes, that’s it,” he sighed. “Tell me again?”

“Jaskier.”

There had been another name. He could not hear it in the name he had now, but he asked if Geralt would repeat it one last time before he slept. Geralt breathed the word against his temple, and it sounded so soft, so distant, Jaskier could almost mistake it for the little boy calling out to him from the edge of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, I'll edit this later lol
> 
> Happy New Year! I'm delighted to ring in the new year with a writing session. What are your resolutions? Mine is to walk my dogs on a longer route. I also want to make a doublet. And finish editing all my one-shots, maybe bind them into a collection of little tiny books. That would be very cute. I like making tiny books best. Tell me your resolutions if you like, I'm curious.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6110

They stayed in the village long enough to join in the solstice celebration. They drank blackberry mead and ate fried elderflowers drizzled in honey. Jaskier had even managed to coerce Geralt into joining him for a dance, and to his surprise he found there was very little needling required to do it. Naturally, Jaskier was a fine dancer, with music running through the very machinations of his heart, and Geralt had been alive long enough to pick up the bare minimum steps to play along.

Just as Geralt promised, the faeries had forgotten the feud and were delighted by the generous offerings left for them at the edge of the fen. They joined the festivities in their own way, sprouting wildflowers under every post of the villager’s fences. The cows gave two buckets of milk that morning, and all the baking came out golden and sweet. Jaskier played an apology for the fae at the border of the fen, safe behind one of the fences, well within reach of the last dairy cow’s shed, though he finally did sing a song of praise for elves at the end—a secret thumbing of his nose for their trickery.

Perhaps it was luck. Perhaps the fae had liked his songs. Or perhaps it was simply the magic of the solstice itself. For whatever reason, Jaskier had one souvenir by which to remember the day. Though the week had passed, the flowers which remained in his crown by the solstice had not withered. More surprisingly, he awoke the morning after to find it had been made new, all the missing and mangled flowers which had been lost in the cavern put right again. Cheekily, he found a bundle of saint’s wort in his bedroll, just as if to say they had no effect on fae, and it had been silly to use it in the first place. But he did wonder, as they’d been careful not to touch it before.

Though the wort shriveled as picked flowers must, the crown remained long after. Even tossed into his bag and rubbed around, it did not wilt or lose so much as a dab of yellow pollen. The price, it seemed, was the smell, for though it looked lovely, it smelled of nothing at all. Jaskier didn’t mind. He was happy to have the crown Geralt made for him, just as untouched by time as his own tin crown. The tin he wore less and less as the months passed, and the flowered more often—and in public. When summer turned to autumn, it was a conversation piece and the envy of all at harvest parties, and it brought joy to many as the leaves withered and flowers were fewer.

Now and then, the crown did make him think of the faeries, and he wondered why they’d not been able to harm him. He thought about his wish. He’d not wished himself invincible, but he supposed his wish must have something to do with it. After all, he’d specifically wished to be _living,_ not human or mortal. Though it was rare, he supposed he’d gotten more out of his wish than what he’d asked for, and by asking to be living, he was protected from all hurt in order to go _on_ living. No fall could crack his bones, no drought could parch him, no famine starve him. He must live. Ergo, no faery could do him any painful mischief.

But they’d nearly made him a figure again. Would he still be living if they’d succeeded? And how exactly did the star _define_ living? Jaskier sighed, the noise echoing down the well. It had been two months since they’d left, but the question still bothered him. He wanted to find his maker, and find answers. He’d heard of another gifted artisan in the area, and meant to part with Geralt at the next crossroads to seek them out. Magic, destiny, stars … it was all so confusion and complicated. He was out of his depth with such riddles. There was only so much he could do.

Geralt continued pulling the bucket rope. “What’s wrong?” he grunted.

“Nothing. Just thinking,” Jaskier replied. He tapped his fingers on the stone and fiddled with a coin he’d found in the dirt, watching the bucket rise. They’d stopped in the village to replenish their supplies. It was a romantic sort of village, and it made him romantic and moody. Even the little well had a sort of charm to it. He supposed that’s what came of places where artisans retired; they all turned into art projects of their own.

“Do you suppose it’s a wishing well?” he asked.

Geralt gave a last pull on the rope and set the bucket on the wall. “No magic.” He uncorked his waterskin and dunked it in the bucket, the bubbles dribbling up out of it.

Jaskier sighed again. He wished it _might_ be a wishing well. Then again, as long as he was wishing for things, he had a much longer list he’d rather choose from. He tapped his coin on the rim, thinking them over one by one.

Geralt looked at him a moment, then passed him the other water skin. “It might have a bit of magic,” he amended, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Jaskier grinned. He juggled his lucky coin over his knuckles and asked, “Have you ever made a wish before, Geralt?” as he flicked the coin at him.

“Once.” Geralt caught the coin, but his smile faltered. He rolled the coin under his finger, spun it on a flat stone. When he picked it up again, he likewise flicked it up in the air, higher now, and they watched it shine in the sunlight. It left a phantom streak of light in its wake, like the tail of a comet, just as one might see when staring too long at a fire.

“I made a wish on a shooting star when I was a boy,” Geralt continued. He reached up and caught the coin again, snatching it from the air. As he spoke, he held it in his closed fist, his eyes staring down at the leather of his glove. “There was a siege long ago. Men stormed the keep in the night.”

“The keep?”

Geralt nodded. “Kaer Morhen. It was an attempt to wipe out the school of the wolf. We were prominent then, with scores of witchers, our halls had fewer echoes. It was after I’d gone through the last of the trials, just a few months after the experiments. Vesemir evacuated us, the pups, and lead us into the woods away from the fight. I was … ” he trailed.

Geralt opened his fist, the little copper coin shining back at him. “I remember being frightened. It was loud and dark, and everything had been a rigid schedule so long. We knew what was happening and when every hour, every day, and suddenly we were thrown into chaos. I’d been afraid of dying many times during the trials, and we were fleeing death once more, so soon.

“I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to watch my brothers die either. In the midst of all of it, I saw a light: a shooting star.” He huffed quietly, and offered a depreciating smile. “It was childish, but I remembered about wishing on stars. And I felt like a real child for a moment and made a childish wish.”

Jaskier inched closer and rested his hand on Geralt’s forearm. “What did you wish?” he asked.

Geralt looked up. He shook his head, then pressed the coin back into Jaskier’s palm. “What about you? Have you ever made a wish?” he diverted.

And Jaskier knew Geralt would not be answering him. Geralt had already said quite a lot; talking about his early years was something difficult for him, Jaskier knew. So he turned back to look at the water far down below. “Never in a well,” he said. “I saw a star, same as you.”

“And what did you wish for?”

“To live,” he answered. Simple, vague, and true. He held the coin out in the middle of the opening, considering, before pulling his hand back and tucking the coin in Geralt’s pocket. “Here, you keep it. I don’t need a wish today.”

Geralt picked up the water skin Jaskier left unattended and filled it himself. “Will you want it later?” he asked, obviously meaning to keep the coin regardless. That playful expression had returned once more.

“Certainly not! Haven’t you ever heard of making a wish on the well bucket? If I so desire a wish, I can keep my coin and simply throw the bucket back over the side of the well. It’s a much more efficient system. Observe.”

Jaskier took the bucket as Geralt collected the full skins and dumped it over the side of the well. “You see?” he said. “People forget that you can throw many things into a well. You should make a wish on every bucket! It makes drawing water so much more fulfilling.”

He began to pull the bucket back up again so they might fill a nearby trough for Roach. It took three buckets, and Jaskier made small wishes on two of them for a pleasant surprise and a refreshing bath. He insisted Geralt take the third wish, eager to lighten the mood, and shrieked with betrayal as Geralt answered his wishes by dumping the third bucket over his head.

“I said a _pleasant_ surprise, Geralt! And that was _not_ a refreshing bath by any measure! And furthermore, I’ll have you know that I—”

But Geralt was not to know what Jaskier meant to say. In fact, Jaskier himself forgot entirely. The moment Geralt’s lips were against his, Jaskier lost all capacity for thought. Every word bouncing around in his head fell to a standstill, save for one. Soft.

It was a quick thing, shy and teasing. When Geralt pulled away, he wiped the wet fringe from Jaskier’s forehead. “There,” he said. “Wish granted.”

He took up Roach’s reins and began to walk them toward the town across the hill, to the inn, his sights set on fulfilling the second wish and ordering a warm bath. Geralt stopped beneath the signpost, poised at the crossroad, and waited patiently. It had been a risky thing, kissing Jaskier, and he’d been bolstered by the possibility of their parting, knowing he might retreat and let things settle between them again during the few days Jaskier would part with him to see his clockmaker. Even so, Geralt thought of the bath. He looked at Jaskier, and at once the thought of parting with him had changed. So he waited.

Jaskier stood transfixed beside the well, watching him go. His eyes turned north. There, he meant to seek out the clockmaker who made gears and springs. In the next town north, he would find another clue to another place to seek out another clue, and so on. The road stretched long over the flatland. It seemed to go on for monotonous miles, chasing the horizon. To the north, the scenery was all the same. The world to the north lay empty.

And to the east stood Geralt.

Jaskier reached into the pocket of his doublet, his hand closing around the winding key. He turned back to the well, the faeries’ song ringing in his ears. There came another song, one from a more pleasant time, now faded and weak with age. He closed his eyes to listen. A young boy sang out from the far corners of his memory, keeping tune with the little music box.

The water splashed quietly as the key broke the surface, and Jaskier watched it sink to the bottom of the well. As the first of the leaves began to fall, Jaskier took Geralt’s hand, and together, they walked into the east.

They lingered until the branches were barren. Every year, there came a time when the winds grew too cold and the road grew too wet. Jaskier would scurry off back towards Oxenfurt in the west and Geralt would continue east, seeking out the mountain pass. They did not often spend more than a week at most in Kaedwen. It was their midway. But now, they found their excuses in abundance. There were contracts still left to fulfill. Roach was tired and they needed to walk and let her rest. Geralt’s amour needed repairing, Jaskier needed new strings. And boots. He simply had to wait in town for his new boot to be made, or else he would lose half his toes to the weather before he’d been a mile on the road. It was only sensible, and Geralt agreed.

But the cold did not bother them so much as they camped the night in the clearing. The trees sheltered them from the wind all around, but the branches parted for them to look up at the sky. They lay close together, sharing their blankets against the chill, each pretending it was still warm enough, that winter had not set in just yet.

Geralt spared a glance at Jaskier from the corner of his eye. Jaskier’s nose was red with cold. He shivered slightly and Geralt inched closer. He threaded a silent hand into his and looked back up at the twinkling sky above. If he lit another fire, they could fight against the night a little longer. Geralt was finding that they stayed up later these night, knowing that soon there would come a night too cold, and it would be their last. The wind would howl to call him home.

“Will you look for your stranger this winter?” Geralt asked, breaking their reverie.

Jaskier squeezed his hand unconsciously. The question implied the inevitable, and he was not ready to let go. Not yet. But Geralt had not asked, so his path lay west even now. If he did not ask, Jaskier would continue as he’d always done in winter, teaching his lecture, rooting through archives, and sending his letters. But there was little use in such letters, he knew.

“I’m unsure whether I ought to,” he replied. “They’re probably dead. I’ve been thinking that a long time now—I just hoped against it.”

Geralt hummed. He turned his head slightly and said, “You still haven’t told me who this stranger is and why you’re looking for them. An old man, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. He’s the oldest family I can remember. I come from wherever he is, I’m sure.”

“And he’s an artist. I’ve noticed you make a point in visiting artisans, in their shops, their homes, whenever we get to a city large enough, the first thing you do is go to the shopping district, but I notice you never buy anything.”

Jaskier nodded. “He is. You’re more observant than I give you credit for, it would seem.”

“I could help you look,” Geralt offered. “I’ve had similar jobs before, tracking people and monsters down. Vesemir has an interest in art—he might have a few more obscure artisans listed in his archives. What did your stranger make?”

The phantom click of the winding key echoed in Jaskier’s head. He bit his lip, eyes drifting to his bag where his music box lay safely hidden. It was ridiculous to be so afraid of showing Geralt. It was an ordinary music box. There was not a trace of a figure where he’d once stood. If he showed Geralt, would it be so difficult to believe he’d had any reason to suspect anything amiss?

He looked heavenward. The sky above was bright, the stars comforting. Suppose he told Geralt his stranger made music boxes; it wouldn’t give his identity away. He would still be a person in Geralt’s eyes. Not a thing. Not a creature or a curse. And … perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible if Geralt knew. Jaskier surely had a soul, he felt, and that made him the same as anyone else. He was just as human, just as living! And Geralt was made, in a way. Jaskier saw the human in him. Why should it be any different?

Jaskier made up his mind. He would tell Geralt … in the spring. All he wanted was one perfect winter together. Things were working out that way, and Jaskier could almost hear the invitation rumbling in the back of Geralt’s throat. One winter in the keep, having met Geralt’s family, and having known Geralt’s love, and he could live the rest of his life satisfied for having known anything so wonderful, however brief. He only wanted one more season to be a man. He prayed his lucky stars would smile kindly on him.

They both jerked upwards in surprise as a shooting star flew overhead.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut tight, crossed his fingers on both hands, and made his wish. He opened his eyes again to the sound of Geralt’s amused chuckling.

“Make a wish?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier flushed and uncrossed his fingers. “Yes. Did you?”

“Couldn’t let a perfectly good wish go to waste. Which of us do you think was first?”

“I don’t think it’s a first come, first served kind of deal,” Jaskier philosophized. “That would be horribly unfair. After all, there are stars that come around once every hundred years. Someone might’ve wished on it already a hundred years ago, and that would be disappointing. I think you get a wish every time you see one, and I think everyone who sees it gets to make a wish. As to whether or not it’s granted, that’s another matter.”

“I don’t believe in wishing on stars,” Geralt replied.

“But you just said you’d made a wish!”

Geralt shrugged. “Might as well. In case I’m wrong. At worst, nothing happens and I look silly, and at best, my wish is granted. The only person here to look silly for is you, and I don’t much mind looking silly in front of you,” he said. He lay back down, smiling up at Jaskier.

Jaskier’s ears felt warm. He cleared his throat, lying down again at Geralt’s side. “So, erm … what _did_ you wish for?” he asked. He twiddled his thumbs as he stared at the empty place in the sky where the star had been.

“For you to find your stranger,” Geralt answered. “What did you?”

That Geralt would make a wish on a star for him—the very notion had Jaskier’s heart swelling in his chest. Shooting stars were not so common a thing as to use on another, even for one with a cynical view of them.

Jaskier reordered the blankets, tucking them both in once more. He wrapped one arm across Geralt’s chest and settled his head against his shoulder. He had only one wish he wanted.

“For you to ask me a different question,” he said.

The hours stretched on, the moon making its long arc in the sky. They both lay in silence, breathing quietly. At such a time, the fire in every home was long banked, and all the creatures of the night had finished their hunts and retired to their dens. Even the winds had gone to sleep. The season at last turned, the dead of night ushering out autumn and inviting the winter to make its bed on the barren countryside. A light snow fell, and by morning, it would be a clean white blanket. In the stillness, Geralt whispered into Jaskier’s ear.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” he said.

He didn’t expect Jaskier to draw him closer and whisper, “Yes,” in return.

The next morning, it was not the birds that trilled to the rising sun, but Jaskier. He was the first voice to break the dawn, singing with delight as he sprang from the ground. The prospect of travelling northeast with Geralt had him vibrating in his boots, and he didn’t want to waste a single minute sleeping when he could be packing to make ready. No more milling about Kaedwen, no more agonizing over that faithful morning when they would have to go their separate ways. The first frost had settled in the night, and Jaskier had woken not with dread upon the sight, but with joy! Winter had officially come, and so the wind would howl, calling Geralt and the other wolves home to roost. That very morning, they would be headed for the keep.

Unable to contain his euphoria, Jaskier burst forth with music, whistling, singing—all the happiest songs that came to mind. He sang spring praises out of season and carols months too early. Geralt shook his head at Jaskier’s antics, but let him have his fun. He could hardly complain that Jaskier’s singing had woken him; he’d woken the moment he’d felt Jaskier stir from his arms. He’d tell Jaskier to quiet down on the road later if the carols persisted.

After the first hour, Jaskier’s singing turned to whistling, then to humming as he ran out of songs with words he remembered. He was much too distracted to be bothered with anything as earthly as remembering lyrics. His heart was singing! It compelled him to invent harmonies! By the time he’d strapped the last of their things to Roach’s saddle, he’d forgotten he was humming at all, it being as natural as breathing. And in his absent state of mind, what else should come forth so naturally as the very song which birthed him?

Dusting off his hands, Jaskier turned to inspect that camp and found Geralt staring at him, swords half-dropped on his own feet, dangling by their braces in his hand. His yellow eyes were wide and he looked stiff and alert.

Jaskier looked behind himself, wary of anything that might have popped out of the woods, but there was nothing but Roach to be seen. He turned back to Geralt, brow furrowed with concern. “What is it?” he asked.

“How do you know that song?”

Jaskier thought a moment, trying to remember what song he’d been singing. It clicked just as he was reaching down to collect his own travelling bag. In a literal sense. His heart gave a leap of fear and the music box made a single, startled _click_ from deep in the confines of its wrappings. Jaskier saw Geralt’s eyes dart down toward the bundle and he pulled the bag to his chest.

“Just something I picked up along the way,” Jaskier replied, trying to brush it off.

Geralt took a step forward.

Jaskier took a step back.

“What was that sound?” Geralt asked. He took another step, letting his swords drop among the grass as he did.

Jaskier clutched the bag tighter. “What sound?” he said, tone light and playful as he tried to evade the answer. “There are lots of sounds: the birds, the trees, the frogs—or toads. Are they frogs or are they toads? I can never hear the difference. Can you tell with your witcher senses the difference between a frog and a toad? They both make a croaking, but is there any _distinction_ to their croaking? I once heard a bird that croaked quite the same as a toad, or the same as a _frog_ as the case may be to the untrained human ear,” he prattled with growing apprehension.

Geralt reached a hand forward and pointed it to the bag, touching the flap with force. “The sound that came from there. It was something mechanical,” he said. “What’s in it?”

“Nothing. A music box. It barely even works. Nothing of any interest or merit—just a bit of sentiment from … it’s nothing.”

“Jaskier. Show me your bag.”

There was something strange in Geralt’s tone, and something stranger in his eyes. It was a quite kind of desperation foreign to him, and it made Jaskier’s heart stutter in his chest. The music box clicked twice more, then again, sticking as his pulse skipped. He began to sweat.

“Jaskier, I need to see it.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I don’t have anything dangerous. It’s just a bit of harmless magic,” he confessed, terrified of what Geralt might do. Upon seeing the music box, what would his first instinct be? Would Geralt distrust him for keeping such a secret? Would he suspect there was some sinister purpose for concealing the truth?

“It’s not the magic I care about; I assumed you’ve been carrying some kind of charm since we met. I want to see the music box.”

“Like I said, it’s perfectly harmless. Just let it go, Geralt, _please.”_

“I’m not trying to trick you into showing me the charm or enchantment,” Geralt said. He placed both hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “I’m not upset with you. There’s no reason to be afraid—I know you’re beginning to panic, I can smell it on you. I only want to see the music box. I want to hear its song.”

Jaskier closed his eyes. He squeezed his bag even tighter to his chest. For a moment, he wished his song had been anything else. He wished it were something common and plain. There had been times before when he’d been proud of its obscurity, thinking himself special for knowing a song so lost to time. But of course it _would_ be such a song: a song old enough that only a witcher would know it. And here was Geralt, finally requesting a song. Whatever nostalgic curiosity had caught hold of him would kill the proverbial cat—Jaskier, in this case. He was the equally-proverbial cat in the bag. And once Geralt opened that bag, both proverbial and literal, there was no closing it again. He would sense the magic in the music box, his medallion would begin to shake, and … well, Jaskier would learn what came after soon enough.

Jaskier let his head fall forward and bump against Geralt’s shoulder. He stayed that way as he slowly pushed the bag against Geralt’s stomach, relinquishing it. He thought to argue that the music box wouldn’t play; there was no key to wind the spring. But perhaps if Geralt saw that, he’d give it up. It didn’t matter whether it could play or not anyway.

When Geralt pulled away to open the bag, Jaskier stepped to the side and walked to the opposite end of camp to wait. He heard the soft slide of fabric as Geralt unwrapped the music box. Geralt’s sharp breath reached Jaskier’s ears even from such a distance.

“Where’s the figure?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier stiffened. His blood ran cold. There was no possible detail that would have betrayed a figure on top. There was no hint, he was sure! But perhaps there was: something so small that only a witcher would see it.

“Where’s the figure, Jaskier?” Geralt asked again.

Jaskier’s hands dug into his hair, his palms covering his ears tightly. He hunched, curling in on himself the smallest bit, his back to Geralt. He hadn’t rehearsed this. He wasn’t ready for it. He felt he’d been lying to Geralt, even a lie of omission, and he wasn’t prepared to face the consequences just yet. Hot tears welled in his eyes as he recalled the faeries’ chanting. A steady clicking came from behind. A pause. More clicking. And Jaskier _knew_ that exact sound.

It was the sound of a person winding a music box.

Clear, humble tones drifted into the air, sure and strong, as if the gears had never stuck, as if the box had never skipped a note since the day it was crafted. Jaskier wasn’t sure his heart was beating any longer. All he could hear was that music. He turned around, inch by inch, listening. It shouldn’t have been possible to play. There was no key. But, there was music. He’d heard the sound of the winding where there ought not to have _been_ any winding. And yet, there Geralt stood, the music box in his hand.

And his strange medallion in the other.

Jaskier’s eyes opened wide. He gaped at the odd ornament whose frayed cord hung around Geralt’s neck. It was no longer _on_ the cord. Jaskier watched Geralt insert the odd little tube at the end into the hole of the music box, then listened to the crank of the spring winding again. It was a key. A _winding_ key. And seeing the box and key together, they made a pair.

Geralt looked up at Jaskier and called quietly, “Julek?”

At the uttering of his name, Jaskier did the one thing the star had protected him from for so long. He broke. His hands flew to his mouth to catch the sob before it escaped. Tears trickled down his face. He was shaking.

 _Julek, Julek, Julek!_ He heard the little boy at last. He heard the name whispered alongside other names during bedtime prayers. He heard it called happily as the boy trotted into the room to snatch him from the shelf. He heard it screamed and wailed in the darkest night when all the world was being ripped apart. Julek!

Jaskier ran to Geralt and threw his arms around him. “I waited—! I waited so long for someone to find me! And when the star—when the star blessed me with life, I went looking,” he sobbed.

Geralt held Jaskier close, the music box gripped safely in his hand as the spring wound down. He buried his face in Jaskier’s hair. “I looked for you everywhere,” he replied. “Every market, every idiot noble’s mantle, I looked for you. Things were raided from the keep during the siege: art, books, armour, weapons—anything that could be used or sold. When we returned, I tore the old tower apart trying to find you among the remaining wreckage, but there was nothing. And here you are. I never would have guessed _you_ were my figure. I don’t recognize you.”

Jaskier wiped his eyes as he pulled away. He leaned down to pick up the old linen shirt Geralt had dropped: the wrappings that protected his box. With a smile, he reached into his bag and retrieved his tin crown, placing it atop his head. “Do you see it now?” he asked. He held the shirt before him, arms spread to display it beneath his chin. He then dropped it in favor of striking his old pose, head back, one hand to his chest, the other outstretched.

Geralt took his outstretched hand and Jaskier felt nothing had ever been so right. Laughter bubbled up from his chest, nervous, elated, confusion laughter. He nearly lost his balance as Geralt spun him around, and Geralt’s own rare laughter filled the air.

“We used to dance like this, do you remember? I would hold your hand as you went round and round and pretend it was us dancing together.”

Jaskier _did_ remember now. It was becoming clearer and clearer. Maybe it was the revelation that did it, or maybe it was the true key winding the box and shaking the cobwebs from his memory. He was inclined to giggle obnoxiously with how dizzy he felt. Geralt continued to turn him until Jaskier couldn’t stand himself, at which point Geralt caught him up in his arms and held him close. Geralt pressed another kiss to his head, then grunted in surprise, having forgotten the presence of the crown. It had poked his cheek.

Geralt reached up to touch the cool metal, tracing the flowers with his fingertips. “I made this for you,” he said.

Jaskier closed his eyes, trying to remember. Yes, he recalled a time when his brow had been barren. “It was a gift. I can’t quite remember what for. My birthday?” Jaskier guessed. He remembered many games where it had been his birthday and Geralt invented fantastic stories, borrowing from one of the other children’s books. There were lots of stories where princes and the like had adventures with witches and evil faeries on their birthdays.

“Not your birthday. Used to dream you’d come alive one day and call yourself prince of the faeries, come to claim my hand in marriage,” Geralt said. He had a nostalgic smile on his face. “I think it was my birthday when I pretended that game.”

Jaskier chuckled to himself. “I remember now. You made the crown for our wedding.” He looked up at Geralt, too affectionate that moment to tease.

Geralt cleared his throat, averting his gaze. “I’ll uh, make you a new one next time,” he mumbled. A light flush crawled up his neck and his heartbeat sounded almost human.

“Next time?” Jaskier echoed, recovered enough to tease just a little.

“I was a little in love with you then.”

“And now?”

“Bit more now.”

“A lot more, I should think.”

Geralt stole his crown and placed it on his own head with a grin. “Impossibly more, you ass,” he replied.

“Hm. And I should _think_ that the impossible should be possible, all things considered. I wished on a shooting star to be living, and here I am after all these years. It shouldn’t have been possible; I was very accident-prone my first few years of life: falling off of cliffs, stabbing myself, drowning, and far too many other things to name,” Jaskier said. “If not for my wish, I should have been dead, ten, even twenty times over.”

“That night of the siege, I wished that nothing would ever hurt you,” Geralt argued. “I think it was _my_ wish that saved you from cliff-diving death. If you had told me of your invincibility long ago, I might not have been so worried about you tagging along on hunts.”

Jaskier scoffed, smacking Geralt’s chest in mock offence. “But then you would have forced me to learn combat and I would have been put to work! Besides, I rather like you playing at being my hero, rushing to my defense when there’s danger. You’re so very _dashing_ as a knight in grimy armour, love.”

“Grimy?”

“I’ve scrubbed your gear of guts enough to give a more honest opinion.”

Geralt nodded in reluctant agreement. “Soon enough, that grimy armour will be retired for the season. We’re headed to the keep.”

Jaskier lit up. He fisted his hands in Geralt’s shirt, tugging him down to eye-level urgently. “My maker! Oh, Geralt, who made me? Did he survive the siege? The old man—is he still alive?” If he were a witcher—and Jaskier was sure he must have been a witcher to belong to Kaer Morhen—it was possible the old man was still alive, if rather more wrinkled by time.

“Vesemir,” Geralt said. “His name is Vesemir, and he is still very much alive. Alive enough that he’ll put you to work doing repairs with the rest of us. The mornings and half the day, your time is _his_ time, and your hands and back dedicated to his to-do list. You’ll be splitting wood, patching walls, and hauling brick down the long halls. But,” he added with a mischievous smile, “when he relives us for the evening, your time belongs to me.”

“Other way around, dear witcher,” Jaskier replied, snaking an arm around Geralt’s hip. “I intend to steal every spare minute of your time. And we’d best get up that mountain as quickly as possible, else I’ll jump you in the snow and never let you up.”

His heart fluttered with anticipation at the thought of the winter ahead. At long last, he’d found his family. They were less than a week’s travel from the mountain pass, and soon he’d see the rest. He’d get to shake hands with his maker and see the faces of the men from Geralt’s stories. Would he recognize them now they’d grown? Eskel, Lambert, Coën … three survivors whose voices had once filled the old room in the tower with bedtime stories and boys’ laughter, their chatter and bickering, their arguments, their mournful nights, nightmares, their dreams and pretend games.

Geralt tilted Jaskier’s chin up and planted a soft kiss on his lips. He rested their heads together, reluctant to pull away. “Are you ready to go home?” he asked.

Jaskier had been waiting for those words all his life. “But I’m already home,” he replied. “As long as I’m with you, that’s where I’ll be.”

“You’re such a sap,” Geralt chuckled.

 _“You’re_ the one who pretended to marry a _music box.”_

“Won’t be pretending much longer, will I?”

Jaskier smiled. He took Geralt’s hand and tugged him toward Roach, ready to start their journey. “No,” he said. “Not for much longer at all.”

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! The conclusion! You just know the other wolves are going to tease Geralt about marrying his baby crush until the day he dies, but they'd probably find it very sweet that Jaskier is just one more brighter memory from a time when they'd needed one. I think Lambert would get a little misty-eyed when hearing that music box play for the first time. And Vesemir would make the best dad jokes in true artist spirit like, "I should have given you a better haircut. Maybe we ought to scrap you and try again." And of course SOMEONE would have to make at least ONE joke about Jaskier have a literal sculpted ass. The possibilities are endless.


	7. Epilogue

“So what you’re saying is, Jaskier’s sculpted ass is, quite literally, a _sculpted_ ass.”

Geralt sighed, stroking a rough hand down his face. “Vulgarity and ogling aside, yes, Lambert. That’s what I’m saying.”

“It’s awkward to think that Vesemir is the sculptor responsible,” Eskel added, trying very hard not to look at the ass in question and Jaskier stood opposite the hall, chatting enthusiastically with their mentor. “And thinking more, since Vesemir made Jaskier, would that make Vesemir his father or something like his god? And he has your hair—does that make you related somehow?”

Lambert smacked Eskel’s arm. “Don’t be gross. Your introspection is going to make Geralt sick; just look at his face. He’s already fucked the man, don’t imply they’re related.”

“We’re _not_ related!” Geralt said, trying not to raise his voice. “It’s like a wig. Wearing someone else’s hair doesn’t make you kin. Who _dropped_ you on your head in the trials?”

“You did. Twice,” Eskel replied.

Lambert leaned back in his chair looking thoroughly satisfied. “I think my vulgarity was much better. At least I didn’t try to send our dear brother into an existential spiral. I only complimented his fiancé’s ass. A much lesser crime.”

Geralt fiddled with the old metal ring around his finger, debating whether he was more embarrassed or more annoyed by Lambert’s comment. He might have punched him if not for the presence of the ring on his stronger hand. Besides, he wouldn’t want to bloody Jaskier’s precious gift so soon before the end of winter.

Jaskier had asked Vesemir to make the ring from the end of the winding key. Vesemir had called him a sentimental fool, but the wolves found him smiling in his workshop while he crafted it. Jaskier had argued that if he _were_ a sentimental fool, some part of that was undoubtably owed to Vesemir who had given him his sentimental heart. The old man was likewise sentimental and had put the bud of a buttercup in the porcelain of his chest: a secret which Vesemir had related to him during their first long fireside chat that night they’d arrived in Kaer Morhen.

Vesemir had taken to Jaskier quickly, to Geralt’s great pride and relief. Jaskier fit in with the pack with such ease. It could be argued that he was _made_ for them, but Geralt liked to think Jaskier was more a product of his own making. It was a philosophy Jaskier much appreciated.

Jaskier had asked Geralt if he might not fashion a ring from his tin wreath, wishing to have that first gift with him always. Geralt had tried to offer him a better choice: a ring of gold or silver, but Jaskier would not hear of it. Tin was far more valuable to him than even platinum, for it was something Geralt had made by his own hand. He wore the ring proudly in the end, flashing it whenever the opportunity presented itself, loudly declaring to anyone who gave him the time of day that he was to marry Geralt of Rivia. Apart from Geralt, there were only four people to flash for, and being the youngest, Coën was bullied more easily than the others into listening to Jaskier rambling mush to his heart’s content. But Coën was likewise of a romantic sort and therefore incapable of realizing he _was_ being forced to listen at all.

Aiden did not count. Like the cat he was, he was always out of sight, hiding somewhere, wary of someone so loud and new. It was a full house that winter. A bard, a griffin, and a cat in the wolf den. They were not weary for company. Jaskier was delighted to have such a large gathering for the day of the ceremony. His only complaint was that it would be difficult to have a complete set of groomsmen if Aiden would not come out of hiding. Geralt had already claimed Eskel and Lambert for his party, and while Jaskier had easily snatched Coën’s favor, the cat was playing hard to get. Jaskier had caught him once, hiding in the woodshed, but he’d hissed and run off the moment Jaskier’s fingers curled around the hem of his jacket.

“—I put you in this world and I can take you out again,” Vesemir threatened, pointing a finger in Jaskier’s face as they walked past the group. It seemed he and Jaskier were once more at odds with their planning. None of their arguing was ever serious—Vesemir had something of a soft spot for Jaskier—but he liked to make jokes and play the reluctant father on occasion.

“But Papa Vesemir!” Jaskier beseeched. He already knew just how to win Vesemir over, tugging at his heartstrings as easily as every other instrument that fell into his hands. “Vesemir, oh loving father, oh dear-hearted, beloved maker! This is a family affair. We ought to host the entire family, don’t you think?”

Vesemir scowled weakly at the pleading bard. “No. There’ll be no horses inside the halls.”

“Then we can host the ceremony outside,” Jaskier insisted. “I simply _must_ include Roach in the procession. After all, _someone_ has to give Geralt away.”

“And someone will have to clean up after the horse when she tracks mud all over my floor. The ceremony will be in the dead of winter. It’s too cold outside and you’ll catch frostbite before any of us so much as feels a single shiver. If you ask me one more time, I’ll put you up in the stable until springtime.”

“Ah, but then who will cajole Geralt into doing those extra chores without my influence?” Jaskier asked. “For the sake of my delicate disposition, Geralt would gladly sweep up after Roach. If it meant my eternal happiness, he would lick the mud from her very hooves!”

“If that’s how you feel,” Geralt interjected, “perhaps I ought to ask for my ring back before you abuse its privilege.”

Jaskier waved a dismissive hand at him. “Hush now, love; the wedding planners are talking,” he said. “And anyway, you’ve seen how much mud these fine gentlemen track, and they’ve only got two legs each. I can assure you, _Roach_ wipes better than them, and she would do it stepping directly over the mat.”

“She’s not giving Geralt.”

“But Papa V—”

“And that’s _final._ ” Vesemir turned to Geralt, expression softening. He continued to speak to Jaskier, even as he placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “I will be giving Geralt away,” he said.

“Oh.”

Geralt looked up at Jaskier, catching his startled smile. Honestly, he might have told Jaskier from the very start, but it was fun to watch him work himself up in ridiculous ways. Besides, he and the others had a bet going to see whether or not Jaskier _would_ win in the end. Geralt had his money on Roach carrying him down the aisle. Two copper coins extra that Jaskier would put her in a hat of some kind for the occasion. Lambert raised it to one silver coin that Jaskier would put her in a wreath of flowers. Never mind that it was winter. Jaskier would find a way.

Vesemir looked back at Jaskier with a fond expression. “I gave you to Geralt nearly a century ago. It seems only proper I give him to _you_ now that you’ve come together again.” He winked. “Makes things even that way,” he concluded.

Jaskier held his hands against his chest, smiling at the two of them as though he might cry. “I suppose Roach could give me away.”

“If we time things right, your star can give you away instead,” Vesemir replied.

The whole company looked at him.

“The star?” Coën asked.

“Yes. The wishing star. It comes every twenty years thereabouts. There’s only one star that grants wishes, and it always comes between the winter solstice and the first day of spring. Some people decorate their trees with a star on top and make wishes for the new year upon it. If you’re lucky enough to spot it, you get one wish. But only one.”

Jaskier’s heart fluttered in his chest. It had been the first day of spring when he’d made his wish to be living. And Geralt’s wish had been in winter, long ago. “That’s … Vesemir, that’s such a romantic notion. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Vesemir looked at Geralt from the corner of his eye. The faintest hint of a smirk played on his lips.

 _You bastard,_ Geralt thought, looking back. All that to keep Roach from tracking in the halls.

Geralt turned to Jaskier with a casual smile. “I think we ought to keep Roach standing by, just in case the weather’s cloudy.”

 _“Fine,”_ Vesemir grunted, throwing up his hands. “But _you’re_ sweeping up!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” With a cry of irritation, Aiden popped down from his hiding place in the rafters to smack the back of Geralt’s head. He’d been betting against Roach’s inclusion.

Jaskier dashed after him as the others fell to betting once more. Vesemir bet Jaskier wouldn’t pin him down until the week before the wedding. Geralt bet the last three days. Eskel, the day before. Coën, the hour of the ceremony.

Lambert bet he wouldn’t catch him until spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for laughs. Three of you requested some kind of continuation, so this one's for you! Hope you like the comfortable shenanigans.


End file.
